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DigitalRaven posted:Gimme the spin, kissed and told, this Thunderdome I'm in. BANGSIAN x CAPER
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Jul 12, 2023 14:19
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| # ? May 30, 2024 11:55 |
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Spin to win!
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Jul 12, 2023 19:31
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My Shark Waifuu posted:Spin to win! BILDUNGSROMAN x ALTERNATE HISTORY
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Jul 12, 2023 20:33
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I shall be third Judge
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Jul 14, 2023 15:55
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Signups are closed.
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Jul 15, 2023 15:52
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ROBINSONADE x SPORTS FICTION Game in Exile flerp fucked around with this message at 17:34 on Jan 2, 2024 |
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Jul 16, 2023 20:21
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NAUTICAL ADVENTURE X POLITICAL THRILLER Damage Assessment 1500 words >How was therapy? >>It was fine >Just fine? >>It was good. >Tell me about it later? Ted sighed. He wished he could tell her everything. >>Definitely >I love you, Theo-baby Ted knew all about Audrey, the dental hygienist from Tampa. He knew about the occasional pills, the credit card debt she hid from him. But that was okay, nobody’s perfect; she loved him, and that was enough. He loved her back. >>Love you too Ted unlocked his front door and went inside. It was a rental, badly maintained, with a lovely patch of dead grass and concrete. He looked through the kitchen window at Dan, who was sitting in one of Ted's lawn chairs. Dan was dressed in a striped polo and khakis, looking like he had just come from the golf course. He was holding a folder. Ted grabbed two Coronas from the fridge and walked out to say hello. Dan smiled and offered a handshake. The man was in his late fifties, but looked a healthy forty and had the forearm muscles of a bear. Ted winced as they shook. I'm twenty loving years younger and I look like chopped poo poo compared to this guy. “Really great work last month on that Lebanese thing, Ted. Great work. The office really appreciates the hustle.” Dan cracked the beer and drank deeply. “Yeah, Dan, no problem. Glad it worked out.” The “Lebanese thing” had left him with broken ribs that freaked Audrey out and took days of explaining to smooth over. She thought Ted worked as a nondescript analyst for the federal government that had to attend a lot of meetings overseas. Ted actually did other work for Uncle Sam; work that as of late had given him tremors and crippling anxiety. He was a NOC agent. Lebanon had involved a “sight-seeing” trip where Ted flushed out two Hizballah operatives for local agents to "process" for information. A few days prior to the trip Dan had stopped him while he was downtown picking up pho for Audrey. Dan had handed him a folder that looked a lot like the one he held now. Ted nodded toward the folder. “What’s up?” Dan flopped the folder open, revealing a few typed pages and several large, glossy color photos. “I need you to go to Finland.” Ted looked through the file. An oligarch’s wife, Alyona Sergeyevna, and preteen son Lev were fleeing Russia in possession of state secrets. Intel was suggesting it involved nuclear assets, and management considered it adequate barter for safe passage. Considering what happened to the oligarch’s previous wife, Ted thought this was a smart move on Alyona’s part. Anything was better than the business end of a chainsaw or worse, handed over to Putin. His job was to meet her at the Finnish border, get her across, and then board one of those Viking cruises they advertised before Downton Abbey. He’d hand her off to agents in Iceland for transport back to the US. “What support can I expect?” “Bad news on that front. This is full deniability. You'll be on your own. No fire support. We can't inform the Fins we're running anything at all.” The warm beer in Ted’s hand sloshed inside the bottle. He clenched his hand against the glass, willing the shaking to stop. “That gonna be okay?” Ted met Dan’s eyes. “Yeah, shouldn’t be an issue. Might need help with a return flight home, though.” “Sure, buddy, anything! I’ll even see if I can bump you up to business class.” *** The ship was starting to list. Ted was pretty sure Alyona had given the flash drive to Lev sometime earlier, and Lev was likely hiding belowdecks. If the ship was listing, it was taking on water. Have to be sure. Ted quickly searched Alyona’s body, moving systematically through each of her pockets, passing hands over stitching to make sure nothing was sewn in. His face was pulled tight with concentration, his awareness split between the search and listening for footsteps on the deck behind him. He was unconscious of the tears streaming down his face, the metal stench of blood that hung in the air. The flash drive wasn’t in her clothing. Ted stood. He took a last look at the corpse, trying to avoid the ruin of her face, her bullet-shattered eye socket. He went away then, lost into a memory of sitting on a split rail fence with his father, watching fireflies wink in semi-darkness. He came back, confused. Hands shaking again. “gently caress it, it’s not here.” Ted checked the magazine on the Grach he pulled off the dead mercenary. Three rounds left, and no spares. The guy had mag-dumped through the door. Ted was lucky he didn’t check the corners. Shouting - Russian. Ted flew to the door. Pacing on the wooden floor just outside. Wait. Wait for it. The mercenary crept to the door, gun up, trying to sight through the bullet-riddled wood. He got close enough to reach for the knob when Ted kicked it open. “BLYAT!” The man caught the edge of the door on his cheek, sending him crashing to the ground. Ted whirled through, putting a round down into the merc's chest and spraying two more towards another in the hall.They went wide but sent the man sprawling. The door to the lower decks was just around the corner. Ted sprinted for it. A bullet thunked into the paneling to his left and he was through, slamming the bulkhead shut behind him. He spun the lock shut and tossed the empty gun. Ted was safe, but only for the moment. He moved downward. The lower deck in this area was a warren of storage rooms. Kid could be anywhere. “Lev!” The ship lurched, throwing Ted into the wall. “Lev! Where are you!” He made it to the end of the maze where the door to the engine room stood ajar. Water pooled at Ted’s feet, and he could hear the rough intake of the ocean just inside. Whatever charge they used to blow the engine had knocked a hole the size of a watermelon in the hull. It wouldn’t take long for the room to flood completely. “Lev!” “Help!” Ted’s heartbeat spiked. “Where are you?!” “Back here!” Ted waded in deeper. He spotted Lev crouched on top of disabled bilge pump, clutching a support beam. The boy’s eyes were wide, and wet. His young face brought another memory to Ted–his dad showing him pictures from Vietnam. Kids pushed to the limit, faces lined with terror. “Lev! Can you climb down?” “I’m scared! Where is my mom?” Ted paused. “She’s just upstairs! We’ve got to get to the lifeboats!” He waded closer, raising his arms to Lev. “Jump down!” Lev hesitated, and then jumped. Ted caught him roughly, half-dropping him into the saltwater. They clutched each other as they waded back toward the exit. Outside, Ted crouched to look at Lev in the eyes. “Lev, did your mom give you anything? A flash drive or something?” Lev reached into a soaked pocket and pulled out a thumbstick. “It got wet. I’m sorry.” The boy’s reedy voice quavered, full of anxiety, of grief. Ted took it and put it in his jacket pocket. “It’s okay, Lev. I’m sure it’s fine. Let’s move.” A thud followed by crunching metal came from behind them, and a fresh surge of frigid water swirled at their feet. They ran. *** The merc surprised Ted at the stairs. He thrust a gun into Ted's face, and instinct alone brought Ted's arm up to knock it aside. It went off an inch from Ted's right ear. It was sound converted to pure pain, an awl shoved through previously unknown anatomies. Ted fell against the wall, clutching his ear and screaming. Lev was screaming too. The boy ran back towards the engine room, away from the pursuing mercenary. They both disappeared around the corner. Ted wouldn't see them again. The water level continued to rise. *** The water was up to Ted's waist when he recovered enough to climb the stairs. He went on hands and feet, trying to balance as the ship rolled beneath him. Reaching the outer deck, he saw it was nearly a 45-degree angle. The lifeboats were furiously chugging away from the suck of the sinking ship. In the background he spotted a powerboat jetting away, back towards Russia. Ted let go of the door and slid to the railing. He leapt into the water, body already numb, and swam towards the closest lifeboat. Someone threw a lifering. Ted grabbed it, using his last strength to worm his body through. As soon as he felt the tug of the rope, he blacked out. *** Ted sat on a bench, wrapped in a stranger's coat, watching the rescue ships move in. He felt in his pocket for the flash drive. It was gone.
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Jul 16, 2023 22:43
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moonlight 850w [removed) derp fucked around with this message at 07:13 on Dec 30, 2023 |
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Jul 17, 2023 00:09
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[FINANCIAL THRILLER x COSMIC HORROR] (from a spin) Mind the GAAP 1946 words The reward for good work is more good work. I repeat this truism to my team every time I hand out a crappy assignment nobody wants. I should have said no to Carrie Wagner. I knew it deep inside but in the moment, I fell victim to my own hero complex just as I’m sure she knew I would. It’s a peach of an assignment, Riley. Nelson is out on sudden leave and all you need to do is wrap up his audit - cross the Ts and dot the Is. Plymouth Pharmaceuticals is not only a huge client, but their CEO plays golf with all the senior partners. It’ll be a feather in your cap, future Full Partner. gently caress Wagner. You don’t need your team, keep them on standby. Easy peasy, lemon squeezey. Nelson was almost done before he collapsed, poor bastard. Good guy, but not solid like you. His team was reassigned last week, and I’m almost embarrassed to ask you to do this but we need someone we can depend on. gently caress her to hell. I walked into Plymouth’s HQ on Monday. They didn’t know what to do with me, and that took the morning to straighten out. Carrie never bothered to tell them that Nelson was out. I had heard the building used to be owned by a company that made religious icon candles and lottery number books. Whether true or not, the place had an odd smell, and even odder vibe. The structure itself was circa 1920s and cubicle farms with walls and desks that looked straight out of the 70s were crammed into it like a hundred pounds of bricks crammed into a ten gallon bucket. You’d think with all the money they made, Plymouth might spruce it up, but nope. Even for an oil company Plymouth was infamously cheap. I got summarily dumped into a conference room just slightly larger than a bathroom stall. The whiteboard was an incomprehensible mess of smeared erasures, the occasional word poked through like petroglyphs. Pale faces from the nearby cubes stared with slack expressions, until I met their gaze, then they would quickly go back to — whatever it was they were doing. Probably playing minesweeper. After another hour of doomscrolling with my phone the head of Plymouth’s compliance team brought in a box with Nelson’s stuff. Laptop, notes, a stress ball, some USBs, and a dirty coffee cup so faded and used, I couldn’t even say what was once on it. The woman was short, had a clammy handshake and an equally clammy looking complexion. For some reason I was relieved she didn’t hang around to chat. It seemed like her clamminess might be contagious. I dug through Nelson’s work. Legal pads were in good order with asset-consulting.com JULY neatly written at the top. His handwriting grew more rushed and spidery as his notes went on. At the end of the most recent pad, I found pages of the same thing written over and over, “THE CENTER THE POINTS THE END” followed by a page with scratchy scribbles that looked like it was a good candidate for psychotherapy. No wonder the guy was out - it looked like he had a stroke. I turned on the laptop and stared at the login screen. A search through his things didn’t turn up any passwords. I plugged his USBs into my laptop, but they were all encrypted for his machine. gently caress. In the company portal, I put in a request for access to his machine, and went through the papers again. They were thorough and referenced the Plymouth annual report - helpfully included in the box, as well as a bundle of printouts from their financial system. I spent the better part of the afternoon catching up and comparing his annotations to the documents. One particular note read, “AFRP page 35 - WHY?? can’t be right. look into.” Digging into the annual financial report, I flipped through - page 33, 34, 38. What the hell? Someone had removed pages 35, 36, and 37 - cut them out with a razor or box cutter. This was under the section for ‘Exploration and Investments.’ I dug through the financials and found the source data. Nothing jumped at me. They had been spending a huge percentage of their capital on exploration drilling in Mexico, the US, Haiti, and off the west coast of South America. They must have reason to think there were large undiscovered oil fields there, but they would go broke if any of those didn’t pay off. Bold, but reckless. I.T. still hadn’t gotten back to me, so I took a bio break. I washed my hands and stared into the mirror wondering what had happened to Nelson. I never did get the details, but he obviously snapped or something. The tepid water went cold and oily. I looked down and I was rubbing my hands under a greasy black sludge that smelled like fish and pig farms. “Ugh, poo poo! What the hell is this?” I grabbed a large slab of paper towels off the counter. The black poo poo just smeared and made me think of when the sewer backed up into my basement. Maybe kitchenette water would be clean. Did they have one? They must. I pushed out the door and nearly ran headlong into a tall, gaunt man in an outdated suit. “Sorry,” I said. “Is there someone in building maintenance we can call? The faucets are spewing this black cra--” I held up my hands, which were wet with water, but otherwise clean. “Huh,” I said and shook my head. “Not enough coffee I guess.” The man peered at me like I may be some new species of bug. He glanced at my visitor badge then suddenly broke into a grin. “Ah, you’re Nelson’s replacement,” he said. “Philip. Howards. I’m Plymouth’s CFO.” He extended a hand. I shook it and it was clammy and limp. I felt like I was shaking a dead carp. He peered at me again and said, “Good luck.” before slinking into the men’s room. “The gently caress? Now I’m losing it.” I muttered and returned to my ‘office.’ On the way, I spotted another copy of the annual financial report sitting on a file cabinet. Who had file cabinets anymore? I grabbed the book, feeling like a kid stealing candy. There was still no word on the laptop, so I checked out page 35 of the annual report. It was a map and descriptions of the most recent oil exploration sites the company was investigating. The biggest was smack dab in the middle of the Yucatan. Could they do that? I would have thought that region was protected. There were five other sites - in the Appalachians, near Lubbock, in Haiti, off the coast of Acapulco, and one on a tiny island named Isla del Coco. I compared the page to the vandalized copy Nelson had. It was definitely the same year. Why had he cut the pages out? There was a pattern on page 33 - like an impression, as if someone had written and drawn on page 35. I didn’t have a pencil, but the whiteboard eraser for the tiny whiteboard was loaded with dry erase dust. I gingerly shaded Nelson’s page 33, revealing strange doodling and one large geometric diagram. I stared. It was a pentagram. It lined up perfectly with the exploration map - the Yucatan in the middle and the other locations at the points of the star with a big circle around it all. I giggled. Someone was loving with him. Were they loving with me? I looked at the notepads, staring at the top line. Why would he write the website at the top? Wait a sec— the real website didn’t have a dash in it. I grabbed his laptop and typed ‘asset-consulting.comJULY.’ I was rewarded with access. Maybe finally I could get some answers. There were only two files on the desktop - a document and a spreadsheet, both named ‘THE END.’ I opened the document and skimmed it. It seemed Nelson uncovered that Plymouth hired thousands of unskilled workers, spent millions in digging and construction equipment, and sent it all to these exploration sites. A large percent of employees too. This wasn’t just risky, this was madness. And highly illegal. I opened the spreadsheet file, and got a warning that the file may be corrupt, but it opened anyway. I paged through the numbers. They didn’t seem to make any sense. I scrolled past repeating patterns, columns wavered back and forth. My eyes watered. The laptop screen stuttered. Lines of numbers danced, and then multiplied, split off, then scattered off the edges. Strange symbols overlayed the figures and I tried to touch them, but they fled like roaches in the light. I scrolled, scrolled, scrolled scrolled until the center the points the end the center the points the end THE CENTER THE POINTS — My eyes began to bleed. THE END THE END THE END
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Jul 17, 2023 01:29
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BANGSIAN x CAPER A Ghost of a Heist 1497 words Cast Penelope - Mastermind. Queen of Ithica, smarter than you. Odysseus - Muscle. Egotistical king of Ithica, second-smartest person in the room. Charles ”Black Bart” Boles - Thief. Stylish and sophisticated gentleman highwayman William Shakespeare - Face. Playwright and student of the human condition. Robert Liston - Surgeon. Two-fisted pioneer of anaesthesia John Knox - Also a surgeon. Burke and Hare’s sponsor, a trailblazer and a piece of poo poo. Henry VIII - King. Founder of Anglicanism, a poor prospect for a husband. - - - “Will? What do you have?” Odysseus leaned back in his chair, looking across the table at the writer. “The word in the stalls, sir, is that King Henry has been levying taxes on the citizens of our fair underworld. He would regain not just his position in society but his riches. He’s already made several lavish purchases, including the Dagger of Aqu’Abi, and a collection of precious emeralds from the Musk Mines.” Black Bart straightened up. “Riches, you say? Such things shouldn’t be kept in the vaults of kings, but the hands of the people. And we are very much people.” “Quite. People who have expenses, at that. Even in Hades’ realm, wine isn’t free.” “Then we’re agreed,” said Bart. “We shall take this king’s ransom for our own.” In life, King Henry had palaces. In death, he had already carved himself a sizeable place in the underworld. The grey stones, slightly insubstantial and out-of-focus at any distance, were the work of very talented soul-masons, and almost impossible to climb. Knowing that Odysseus was only moments from recounting once again the story of how he had broken the Siege of Troy, Penelope wracked her brain. “William. Go, rouse the guards’ ire. Your mastery of language should rile them. Husband, provoke them to action and give chase with them.” The bard nodded. “Yes, they’ve got the look of the common soldier about them, not a general or a king. I shall lead them a merry dance.” “Just far enough that you can make sure they won’t come back, then join us inside. I don’t want us half-handed.” Penelope and Bart hung back. She was, of course, correct. The Bard of Avon’s mastery of invective had not diminished in the many years he’d had to learn. By the time he called their family tree ‘two dead twigs sticking out of a dead badger’, they were already fit to strike, and had started chasing him before Odysseus had a chance to speak, though they wouldn’t get far before the wily one would tackle the guards. Black Bart, dashing as ever, lead her through the ornate doors as though he owned the place, a suitor showing off to his beau, rather than a pair of thieves breaking in to their latest target. He cast his eye over the interior, then moved around, looking carefully over each wall and floorboard. Though he was originally a highwayman, an age of working with this particular crew of misfits had rather broadened his instincts. “There will be more guards upstairs. I’m certain that’s where this King will be, as well, but look here–“ he gestured at two panels in the wall, apparently no different to any others. “Servant’s doors, but far larger than they need to be. Large enough for grand paintings, statues, and everything else.” “Paintings and statues are too large to lift, though, and even if we could recover them we’d not be able to leave at speed,” said Penelope. “It’s not like the only security is a hidden door. I’d wager that’s his strongroom, and whatever isn’t on immediate display is down there. We’d be less likely to raise alarm as if we took it from under his nose.” “I don’t like it. It seems too obvious, a treasure hoard in a basement.” “Dear wife,” said Odysseus from the doorway, “obvious or not I would suggest we make ourselves scarce. I hear many footsteps on their way here, and beyond this Henry there are few enough guests.” Bart had already opened one of the hidden doors by the time Penelope replied. “Very well, husband. But it is too obvious, and too easy.” “Oh, I don’t disagree, but Fortune may yet smile upon us.” The simple brick-lined passage beyond the door were clearly part of the backstage of the residence, a place for servants rather than nobility. Even then it was large, able to accommodate three broad men abreast. It was not far until the passage ended at a thick, locked door. Shakespeare’s ears pricked up. “I can hear someone through that door,” he whispered. “Only one, so not likely a guard, and the sound is odd, like it’s a theatre rather than a treasure-room.” “We can still turn around,” Penelope said. “I have a bad feeling about this.” But Black Bart, acting while the rest of the team bickered, had already opened the door. What was on the other side made him pale. A filthy charnel-house of a room, thick with the smell of old blood. Stains and spatters of bodily fluids covered the surfaces. Down the left-hand side of the room were the locked metal doors of small cells. Along the right, a series of other bodies in various states of dissection. A woman’s body lay strapped on an anatomist’s table, her abdomen pulled open and the skin held back with wires. A balding man wearing a high-collared coat and thick round glasses worked on the cadaver, inspecting organs and carefully cataloguing them, before carefully replacing them. The doctor — if that’s what he was — turned to the opened door. When he spoke, it was with a thick Scottish accent “No. No, this will not do! I will not have my work interrupted.” “Barbarian!” Cried Odysseus, stepping forward. “You butcher the bodies of the slain and call it work?” “It is the greatest work there is, to understand the differences in the human condition by the variations of the body! If only those idiots Burke and Hare hadn’t got themselves caught, the whole world would understand.” Then the woman on the table moaned. It was the quietest sound, but in that room at that moment it was deafening. Odysseus leapt forwards, grabbing for the doctor. He grabbed and punched, using his wiry strength to fend off the doctor’s blows. The King of Ithaca, however, was unarmed, and he soon felt the sting of the surgeon’s blade. Penelope and Shakespeare raced to the woman on the table. Whatever cruelties she had endured, she was still alive — as alive as any shade could be in the underworld. They could not rouse her, and while they could remove the wires holding her abdomen open, they could not effectively tend to her wounds. Black Bart, meanwhile, tried to open the cells. In the first he found only a bloody mattress. The second had a pair of young men, dressed only in rags, their faces sallow and pitted. The third, however, revealed quite a surprise. A tall, strapping man, bald on top but with curly black hair and great bushy muttonchops whiskers, his hands tied behind his back and his mouth gagged. Bart cut the gag free, and worked on the man’s wrists. “What’s going on?” The man had a Scottish accent similar to the doctor’s. “The madman through there is Robert Knox. In life he was an unscrupulous bastard but a fine anatomist, who asked no questions of the men who brought him his bodies — including the most basic, such as ‘did you kill him?’. I knew him in life, and he has not taken well to death. He’s obsessed with how our bodies work in the underworld.” “You knew him? Are you another doctor?” “Aye, Robert Liston.” He straightened, rubbing his wrists now they were free of the cuffs. “Fastest surgeon in the West End, and the first to use that Yankee dodge that became known as anaesthesia.” “The woman on the table, are you fast enough to do anything for her?” “I can indeed, though you’ll have to keep that madman from me.” Liston stood, a gleam in his eye as he saw Odysseus wrestling with his former colleague. “Go, help your friend. Lady, and — good grief, the Bard himself — I’ll need your assistance.” He retrieved a bag from beneath the table and grabbed various instruments from within. “I’ll do all I can to save you.” Penelope, one eye on the brawl, was trying to work out the group’s next move. If they were able to defeat Knox they still had to get his victims out of King Henry’s palace, find out what Henry was doing working with Robert Knox and why… all of that and they hadn’t a single coin to show for it. And yet she saw the care in Liston’s work, working with both speed and precision. He’d make a valuable addition to the crew. And they’d need all the help they could get with the plan already forming in her mind.
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Jul 17, 2023 01:45
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Spilling the Tea 943 words MATRON LITERATURE X TECH NOIR Neon lights gleamed off of the chrome and carbon-fiber carapace of Fiorella’s armor. It was monsoon season and the world felt like one interminable hot flash, but Fio had been living in this city too long to feel comfortable on the streets unarmored. Her kids told her it was embarrassing, but their kids thought she was cool, and that was important. A squad of rent-a-cops on ugly, beat hoverbikes sped past, weaving in and out of the slow lines of bot-driven trucks and commuter busses. Once upon a time that would have given her pause, but she’d hacked the channels all the militias and contract companies used ages ago, and none of their chatter mentioned Atr0pine, or any of the several dozen keywords associated with that now-legendary netrunner. But you didn’t get to be an old netrunner by getting lazy, so she kept an eye on that company’s chatter specifically. Her mission was too important to get slowed down by hired guns. The bell on the door of the tea shop tinged merrily when she walked in, her armor dripping with rainwater. It was a small, unassuming shopfront. Brownish walls. Greyish floor. No tables or stools or artwork. The back wall, behind the counter that ran the width of the store, was one immense shelf, filled with boxes upon boxes of tea with illegible, handwritten labels. But what Fio noticed was the security. No tea shop had security like this. She’d noticed it first on the online store, the layers and layers of encryption, far denser and more focused than any routine payment processor warranted. She threw up her own walls almost without thinking, and began running her custom decryption program, like a worm boring through the walls of code. In the real world, a young man sat behind the counter. He barely glanced at Fio before saying: “No face coverings in the shop.” Fio snorted. “Really? What if I’ve got religious reasons?” “Then you can order your tea online and the drones will bring it to your house. No masks, no scarves, no helmets, nothing.” She shrugged and removed the helmet. Twenty years ago, a mass of black hair would have spilled out, dazzling onlookers. She’d have worn scarlet lipstick and indecently long eyelashes, and her toned, curvaceous frame would have been one more weapon in Atr0pine’s arsenal. But that was twenty years ago. Truth be told, the short hair fit inside the helmet a lot better. The clerk stood a little straighter when he saw her face, clearly slotting her mentally into some pre-set category of customer. His tone was polite and neutral. “How can I help you today, ma’am?” Fio eyed the labels behind him. “I’m looking for four ounces of imperial white persimmon.” He frowned, some tension entering his shoulders as she shifted in his view from regular customer to problem customer. “Oh. I’m so sorry. We don’t have that particular blend.” “Are you certain?” “I can go check the back if you’d like.” His tone made it a question. Fio nodded, and he disappeared through a little door set into the eastern wall of the shop. She leaned against one of the suspiciously bare walls and closed her eyes. Any passerby glancing into the shop would see a patient granny, waiting for her tea. Her decryption program had taken her past the first layers and run into active countermeasures. Active anti-hacker countermeasures! In a tea shop! Fio was intrigued, but there was no time. She took apart the programs with a few elegant lines of code, and subverted another to act as her sentinel throughout the rest of the system. Like a badge, showing she belonged. The door opened. “I’m sorry ma’am, we simply don’t have any of that tea. You could try Tan’s shop, over in Greenfetter.” God drat it, she didn’t want to split her focus. She gave him a rueful smile. “Oh, dear. I’m very sorry, could you look again one more time? I saw it on your website.” “You did?” He leaned over his computer to check, his brow furrowed. Fio had already made her way through their inventory system, and it was child's play to insert a bogus entry. The clerk sighed. “Okay. I’ll check one more time. If it’s not here I’ll special order some for you.” “Thank you.” She slid back into the system as the door shut once more. Her subverted program guided her past the last few layers of security, including some potentially lethal programs designed specifically to ruin a netrunner’s whole neural structure, and she found what she was looking for. The customer list. Fio scanned it, copied it to her private storage space, and backed out of the system, covering her tracks as best she could as the clerk came back, looking somber. She sighed, trying to look put upon rather than exultant. “Oh dear, you couldn’t find it?” “I’m afraid not, ma’am.” “Well. I suppose I could be satisfied with two ounces of white jasmine, one ounce of peach blossom, and a half ounce of the cinnamon chai.” That evening, Fio arranged her purchases into a lovely gift basket, along with some flowers and a jar of jam from her daughter’s hydroponic strawberries, and sent it to Agnes Mitchell, the head of the local bridge club. Three weeks later, Fio’s membership in the club was approved. “I’ve never met another person who drinks this blend!” Agnes said as Fio poured the floral, spicy, frankly awful tea for their table. “Such a delight, how ever did you find it?” Fio picked up her cards and smiled. “Just a lucky guess.”
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Jul 17, 2023 03:15
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thunderdome winner
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A Tasmanian Devil 562 words Tasmanian Gothic x Menippean Satire I was five days on the run from the coppas when I first contemplated eating my old cellmate Alex. We were camped out in the bush, he was sleeping, and I was hungrier than I could sate scraping up the bottoms of our stolen cans of Vegemite. A little devil snuck up to the campfire. "I'm gettin' hungry," I said to the beast. "Either going to eat you or eat him there. Any volunteers?" "I dunno, mite," said the devil. "Got any Vegemite?" "Barely," I said. "Enough to lick the can." "Pity," said the devil. "I don't wanna be eaten without a good helping of Vegemite on me meat." "That's not what Vegemite's for, mite," I said. "Unless you're made of bread." "Well, I'm a Tasmanian devil, not a Tasmanian angel, aren't I? Of course I'm going to advocate for rule-breaking." "Well, if it's rule-breaking you want, I suppose I should eat that guy," I said, tipping my cap at Alex. "Nah, mite," said the devil. "Two convicts on the run, far away from civilization? Cannibalism's well within the rules." "'Scuse me. If cannibalism's within the rules, what isn't?" "Let's see. No Vegemite on meat, that's a rule. No Vegemite on ice cream, that seems fair. Don't put Vegemite in a bowl and eat it as a soup, that's still there." "So really just Vegemite etiquette? Those are the only rules?" "Out here in Tassie, yeah. As a good devil, I must ask that you break these rules. Please procure some Vegemite so that you may eat it incorrectly." "You're not making any sense," I said. "If there are no rules in Tassie, why am I a convict to begin with? Musta broken one of the laws." "Excellent question. I don't know the answer, I ain't you. But tell me, how are your parents related?" "How'd you know my parents were related?" "Cuz you're from Tassie." "Fair. Second cousins." "Second cousins!" said the devil. "Fancy you! You must have the cleanest genes in 'Stralia! Was it against the rules for your parents to marry?" "They never married," I said. "But it wasn't against the rules for them to gently caress. More of an expectation, really." "Right. What'd you go to prison for?" said the devil. "Killed a man in a bar fight," I said. "Nah, that ain't it," said the devil. "This whole island got stolen by your ancestors so it could be turned a prison. If there weren't drunks to arrest round here, Tasmania would lose all meaning, all purpose. You didn't go to prison because you broke a rule. You were supposed to kill that guy so that you could go to prison, and Tassie could function as it's supposed to." We both looked over at Alex, who emitted a loud snore. "So it seems like you've got two options," said the devil. "First, you can do what violent, depraved convicts are supposed to do when they're hungry in the wild, and kill a man for his flesh. Or you can break the only real taboo to a good 'Stralian, and eat Vegemite wrong. As a purveyor of immorality and indecency, I strongly suggest you do the latter." With that, the devil scurried off into the night. I looked over at Alex, then smashed the last can of Vegemite against a rock. As I licked the Vegemite from broken glass, I felt free.
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Jul 17, 2023 03:43
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The Technicality 999 words Dying Earth x Legal Twelve approximately human cadavers were slumbering in a monumental cavern, hanged in two rows to the roots of colossal dead trees above, dreaming of long-forgotten ages, when someone spilled powerful blood on the altar before them. Death paid for life, momentarily. The Jury awoke and looked with empty eye sockets at the two parties before them. “Who goes there?” asked the First Juror. Two petitioners stood by the altar. “I am Polymachaeroplagides, the Thrice-Hunted” said a splendid, tall, muscular man with the mien of a warrior and the tired eyes of a scholar, who held a candle high and looked without fear at the Jury. He wore an embroidered tunic, a battered chainmail vest, and a bright red pelt as a cloak. Scars old and new covered his copper skin, and he sported a proud mane of blonde hair. “I am Paikan, “ said a nightmarish blend of machine parts and arthropodic segments, surmounted by a camel-like head. Boiling blood dripped from one of her ten pointy legs; evidently it was her who had slain on the altar the last Bomerian dragon, a wretched, stunted, deformed creature. “We come here to petition the Hanged Jury to adjudicate the matter between us, according to Law and Precedent,” she added, and the man confirmed. “The Jury accepts,” said the First Juror. The others started to chatter ominously. “Understand our decision is final and binding. No appeal. Our power destroyed the world, it might just as easily destroy you both. Since you traveled all the way here, and together at that, we assume you have already considered fighting it out and decided against it, so no violence in the court. Please state your case.” “Our dispute regards the ownership of the Disk of Niourk, a powerful artifact that allows one to escape this doomed world. Each of us holds half of it, and claims the other half.” “Please put both halves on the altar, without assembling them.” Polymachaeroplagides reached under his fur cloak, pushed the corpse of the last Bomerian dragon awkwardly out of the way and put on the altar a semi-circular object covered in minuscule inscriptions, then stepped back. Paikan in turn bent over and retched a very similar object. Both pieces were evidently of the same make and material, and would assemble to form a disk with a square-shaped hole in the middle. “Very well. You may now present your claims.” Even as he asked the parties to speak, the other jurors never ceased their muttering among themselves, which took Polymachaeroplagides aback, but not Paikan, who immediately answered : “Before that I would like to present a motion for summary judgment. As a descendant of the lost race of Gam, my adversary is forbidden by the Curse of Helgvor to journey to other worlds.” “The Curse was overturned by the ritual duel of Glaude the Ill-Born v Cleofas.” “That duel made use of inappropriate rites.” “Bellerophon v the Universe established that appropriate rites when either duellist is of demonic nature.” “That case has been overturned. Melgo the Resourceful v the Dread Malefarch Charonyx.” “Wait,” Polymachaeroplagides interrupted, “You are the Dread Malefarch Charonyx!” “I was. As sometimes happens in legal matters, I am now using the same argument to which I succumbed in an earlier case.” “I read all about this case, you should have won but… You threw your own case on a technicality just to establish a precedent and use it here, decades later! Who does that?” “Be that as it may, the ruling stands. It has never been overturned in any earthly or infernal court.” Polymachaeroplagides wavered, but, to his credit, soon found a retort: “Even so, this case is strictly about ownership of the Disk, and not the use I may or may not make of it, which my adversary cannot prove anyway. Who’s to say, before the fact, I will use the Disk to journey between worlds? I may sell it for a hefty sum to the right buyer. I may use it as a paperweight. I may power minor sorceries with the wafts of aether it exsudes.” “That’s weak, Polymachaeroplagides. The Anaximandrian doctrine holds that for artifacts older than a aeon, the owner is presumed to utilize their primary power.” “That’s just doctrine, not settled law.” “Again, weak.” The First Juror looked at Polymachaeroplagides and something like amusement trembled on his decomposed lips. “Do you have another argument for the Jury?” “I have no other argument to present at this time.” “Then we find that the Curse applies, and Polymachaeroplagides cannot lay claim to the artifact. We rule in favor of Paikan, who can now take possession of the Disk.” Paikan stepped eagerly to the altar and assembled the Disk with the pincers at the end of her second pair of legs. A cold wind blew from nowhere, and reality itself seemed to waver around her. She turned to her adversary. “You have been a worthy opponent over the years, Polymachaeroplagides. I would take you with me if I could.” And without waiting for an answer, she disappeared. The man, who had watched it impassibly, then said in a lapidary tone : “The Jury has ruled and I have abided by its judgment. Farewell.” He turned to leave, but before he could, the head juror said: “Hold on. You know that the Curse of Helgvor did not apply to this case, right?” “Certainly. The Disk of Niourk allows one to escape this doomed world, it is true… But not to enter another one, without some other device to navigate the multiverse. So there is no journey to other worlds. Paikan is now trapped in the void. In her eagerness to use the Disk, I knew she would only doom herself.” “But if you’d just given your half to her…” “...She would have sensed the trap and thought twice about it.” “So there you came, and threw your own case on a technicality.” “Yes.” And on these words, Polymachaeroplagides left the Hanged Jury to its renewed slumber.
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Jul 17, 2023 05:07
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The Book of the Dead 1464 words BILDUNGSROMAN x ALTERNATE HISTORY When I was thirteen, my father died in a raid. The longship was sailing home, laden with spoils, when the Saxons attacked and my father fell overboard in the battle. Other men were killed too, and their widows wept over their bodies before they were burned and sent to Valhalla. My mother and I had no body to weep over, so we did not. My mother wept later, alone in our cold house. In that moment, I vowed to bring my father back from the dead. First, I sought the village elders. Growing up, I preferred practicing with a sword rather than listening to their stories, so I asked them to share the sagas again. They were happy I took an interest, and I was encouraged to find that the gods and heroes always had ways to cheat death. Eagerly, I asked the elders for more specific instructions. They smiled. “Are you a hero of legend, who would go retrieve your father from the afterlife?” “I might be,” I said defiantly. “Tell me, how can I travel there?” But they did not know, and even suggested that I shouldn’t want to take my father away from the paradise of Valhalla. I stewed, angry that no one could help, until my mother suggested I join the village’s next trading expedition south. “You won’t find what you’re looking for here,” she said, assuring me that she’d be all right. It was my first time leaving the village. I made myself useful around the ship, and asked about the secrets of death in each port. I learned about many contradictory local rituals, but one fact remained constant: the New Kingdom of Egypt knew death best, for their kings were said to be gods on Earth. I had heard of the New Kingdom, of course, but knew nothing of its customs. I had to go there. At the southern-most port, I waved goodbye as my kinsmen sailed north, telling myself that all the heroes undertook their trials alone. With my sailing experience, I was able to join a Gallic merchant ship sailing through the Western Gates and east into the Middle Sea. Most of the land surrounding the sea belonged to the New Kingdom, but I knew the secrets of death would be found in one of their shining metropolises. The merchant ship ended its journey in Per-Ra, the Eternal City, and I stepped into a new world. All the streets, even the alleys, were paved in smooth stone. The buildings were stone too, and brightly painted. Each of the city’s seven hills was topped with a temple to a different god, and the great Pyramid of Cleopatra loomed in the distance like a man-made mountain. People, more people than I’d seen in my entire life, bustled past me, bringing the stone city to life. I wandered, not going down the same street twice, until I found myself at the Great Library. Here would be the knowledge I sought. I walked in and asked a bald scribe, in Gallic, that I wanted to read books on death. He looked pointedly at my ragged sailor’s clothes and said something that sounded rude in Egyptian. I came all this way and knowledge would be denied based on my clothes? Angry, I tried to push past him– maybe another scribe would be more helpful– before realizing that the books would be in Egyptian too. A guard appeared and escorted me out of the Library. At least the elders at home shared their knowledge freely. Frustrated, I returned to the familiarity of the docks. I couldn’t give up so easily; the heroes of legend did not. First, I had to learn Egyptian. For the next season, I worked on a small trading ship as it traversed the New Kingdom. The crew taught me the language and culture, telling me that the priests of Osiris knew death best. It was common knowledge, though, that the body must be preserved, grave goods assembled, and the proper rituals followed. I thanked them, but quietly despaired; my father’s body was lost, so perhaps he never even made it to the afterlife. Still, that was but the understanding of sailors. Once the ship returned to the Eternal City, I left to find the experts. This time, I would be worthy to be seen. I bought pleated linen clothes and went to a public bathhouse to clean and shave myself. Thus prepared, I climbed the largest hill to the Temple of Osiris. A junior priest greeted me at the gate and I tried asking him my questions. He didn’t seem to understand, and launched into a recital of the various embalming options and their prices. I interrupted him, asking to see the high priest. He told me he was a busy man, and I said, calmly, that I’d wait. The junior priest left and I sat. Long days at sea had taught me patience. Finally, an old man in a blue robe approached me. I told him that I’d like to see the high priest, and he smiled and led me to his office. “How can I help you, Norseman?” he asked, bright eyes curious. “I want to know the secrets of death, so that I may bring my father back from the dead,” I said. I leaned forward, eager to hear the answer after all this time, but instead he asked me what I knew already. Willing to play along, I told him about Valhalla and the beliefs of my homeland, then spoke about the Gallic traditions I’d heard on my journey. Lastly, I told him what I knew of Egyptian rites from the sailors, apologizing for my simplistic explanation. He waved off my apology. “Your understanding of death is great already,” he said. I frowned: all I had was a collection of stories and ceremonies. “You have earned the right to learn our beliefs as well.” He unrolled a long papyrus scroll. “This is the Book of the Dead. It tells the soul how to navigate the afterlife to Sekhet-Aaru, which is like your Valhalla, I believe.” “Can you tell me what it says?” I asked, entranced by the vivid illustrations. The high priest read each section, explaining in detail each of the trials and answering all of my many questions. When we at last reached the end of the scroll, my heart was pounding. These instructions would guide me in resurrecting my father. I expressed my enthusiasm to the priest, who hesitated. “Let me show you something else.” He led me through the complex to a large, low building. Each small chamber held a body that was in the process of mummification. We passed rooms of wrapped bodies and organs in jars before I paused. In this room, the body was unwrapped and grotesquely open, and the attending priest was filling it with straw. “How could a man come back to life if he’s filled with straw?” I asked quietly. The priest guided me away. “The body is not immortal … but the ka, the spirit, is. Your father was a good warrior, was he not?” “Yes.” “Then with his warrior courage, he will be able to pass the trials of the afterlife. Now, was he a good man?” I remembered him teaching me to use a sword, so proud when I did it correctly. I remembered him picking up and twirling my mother each time he came home from a raid, both laughing with joy. My throat was too tight to speak, so I nodded. “Then his pure heart will balance the scales, and he will be able to enter Valhalla.” Hearing that, the answer I’d been seeking for so long, delivered so confidently in the priest’s gentle voice, broke something within me. I cried for my father while the priest gently patted my back. Once I recovered, I had one last, nagging question. “But what of the rites? The pyre or mummification? The sacrifices, the gravestones, the offerings? Which way is right? Why do they even matter?” The priest smiled. “Our rituals matter to us, and your rituals matter to you. That’s what is important.” His words gave me peace. I realized I needed to return home, to my own rituals of remembrance. My mother embraced me the second I stepped off the boat, neither of us wanting to let go. “My son, what a man you’ve become!” she said, beaming. “Did you find what you were looking for, out in the wide world?” I looked around at our carved houses and humble dirt roads, then noticed a new runestone in the center of the village, commemorating the raids of the last few years. I walked to it and touched my father’s name. “I did, but the answer was here all this time.”
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Jul 17, 2023 06:20
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Small Miracles 1180 words LGBT PULP FICTION x MYTH "Mercy Lineas?" Barked the senior of the two officers, barely hinting that there was any question on the matter. It was my name, one of them anyway. But not one that this creep should know. I checked my nails, spreading the fingers on both hands in front of her face. No cracks, no chips. Good. Then I balled my right hand into a fist and clocked the SS officer on my right. Glass jaw, shut him right up but didn't quite take the fight out of him. While he reeled back, his partner, to my other side, pulled out a black gun with a long thin barrel and tried to line up iron sights. Idiot. I'd have started firing as soon as I could, put the first bullet in the leg if I had to rather than waiting for center of mass. But this Nazi thought he had two seconds to keep raising his weapon. He didn't. I hit him with a kick in the shin and an open hand to the bottom of his wrist. My perfect nails drew blood and the gun tumbled down. The broken-jawed officer bounced forward, gun out but clumsily aimed. I spun around and grabbed his hand, pulling it up and to the side and pressed his trigger finger down with my own. One bullet right into the other one's heart. I let the recoil send our arms right into his face. One concussion right there, another when his head hit the ground. I frowned. My index finger nail was wrecked from that one. Also, stealth was not going to be an option. The good news was that there wasn't likely to be any more SS on the train. Maybe some soldiers, wandering about or directly guarding the package. Stealth was out. Speed was in, and speed has always been my friend. I ran down the car. People mostly got out of my way. Two cars down and I knew I was in the right one. Larry Krieg. Larry was deep inside the Wonderweapons program, and had been slipping information our way for months. Right up to when the field agent responsible for getting his missives out to someone with a radio in occupied France got banged up. One of mine, and it always hurts when there's only one way to answer a prayer like that. Larry might not be fully burned. No way to tell how much they learned before Agent Stross managed to work up to swallowing his tooth. I got the order to extract Larry, and judging from what just happened I walked right into a trap. When you're in a trap, do the unexpected. Always a good plan. I had the two guns from the SS guys ready to play. I emptied them, shattering the long window in the side of the car and making everyone in the car but Larry dive for cover. He was a cool character. Maybe he expected extraction. Maybe he was past fearing death. Either way, good for him. I dropped the guns and rushed him, tackling him hard and sending us both rolling out the window. I'm used to fast, sure I could match the speed for a few seconds when I hit the ground. With luck, Larry would be in my arms safe when that happened. If not, well, him being not able to talk to the Gestapo had always been plan B. Plan A was still on. Soft grass, soft landing, a few seconds running at locomotive speeds before starting to tumble. And it was a nice tumble at that. Larry was fine for a science guy. Then I noticed he was getting too into it already. "drat it, V," I said. I haven't been a woman before this outing. Was still getting used to it. And what didn't help one tiny bit was the little curse V dropped on me when I arrived. "You'll be beating men off with a stick," she had said, and as I tumbled I was certainly keeping my eye out for a promising tree limb. "Absolutely irresistible." Which wasn't quite true. Anyone oath-bound to a higher power than me, which is basically to say any kind of power at all since the messenger girl is the bottom of the pile. So monks and married men could say no, could not get activated like a hypnotically triggered sleeper agent the second I had a stray lusty thought at them. V told me I deserved it, and I'm not completely sure they're wrong. Then they gave me my first assignment. Monks and married men. That was who I could trust really meant it when they said they wanted to dance. And all the gods loath an oathbreaker, so nothing with them was going to last. And also women, but it took me a long time before that light bulb lit up. Only a few of those ever crossed my paths during the war, and they weren't my type. Too much like me or my sisters. Anyhow, Larry. Grateful, lustful Larry. I didn't ever find a stick, had to give him a good hard slap to snap him out of it, and there went another nail. Just a chip this time, but still annoying. A little violence and a reminder that we were going to be hunted like foxes once the orders went up and down the chain of command, and he was focused on the matter at hand. It was a tricky one. The thing about doing the unexpected is that it's a surprise to you, too. If we hadn't been rumbled, if I'd made it to a proper station stop I could have managed passage out, either to a resistance heavy part of rural France or to a neutral port in the Mediterranean. Instead, we were out in the countryside, nowhere near any decent hubs, and the train stations either way down the line were going to be crawling with Nazi goons. Then I smiled. I pointed. "A barn?" Larry said. "So you've changed your mind-" I pushed him away. "Not a barn," I said. "Not just a barn anyway. The roof has been raised, and the doors are too wide. That's a hangar." The plane was an old barnstormer, wood held together with bailing wire. Had to be, anything more airworthy would have been turned into a fighter. And it needed a lot of work. I was ready to charm or shoot any farmer who interrupted us, but if anyone was around to hear they must have thought better of it. Not too much fuel, but enough to get across the border, flying low in the dark. The landing was rough, but we both walked away from it, and right into the arms of a Guallist resistance cell. The leader was a fine looking man with barbed wire scars on his face and a wedding ring on his finger. I checked my nails, then shook my hands out and fixed them. In this time we're limited to small miracles, and I try to make them count.
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Jul 17, 2023 08:14
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The Flying Steel of Doctor Wang 1220 words "Doctor Wang! Villains of the Black Moon Circle have broken into the Orthopaedic Ward, intent on reclaiming their injured bandit captain Han Xian!" Nurse Ko's hasty words struck Doctor Wang like a thunderbolt. "The Black Moon Circle?! But nurse, I am engaged in an operation!" He raised a gloved hand, slick with the blood of his patient, reknowned scientist Ellery Quan. "I cannot assist in the defence of the hospital at this time!" The nurse gasped, and the eyes of the other doctors in the room widened in shock. "Dr Wang's skills as a surgeon-swordsman of the Spinning Scalpel school are without peer - if we do not have his aid in fighting these interlopers we are all surely doomed!" whispered the Anaesthetist to the attending Registrar, who nodded vigorously. There was a soft, pained voice from the table. "No, Doctor - you have trained all your life for this moment. You must meet with your mortal foes and defeat them." It was reknowned scientist Ellery Quan. Dr Wang looked at the anaesthetist, with blazing eyes. "Forgive me," said Professor Quan. "I did not want to shame him by telling him: his drugs could not render me unconscious because my kung fu was too strong." "You shame us all, Professor Quan," said Doctor Wang and stripped off his mask. Underneath his face was a rictus of barely-controlled rage and his long moustaches quivered as he spoke. "I will defeat these foolhardy challengers and return before sepsis has had a chance to set in. They will rue the day they chose to assault the Li Ka Shing Faculty of Medicine!" The corridor outside was awash with blood and bodies, and the air thick with smoke. At once Dr Wang set off towards the embattled Orthopaedic Ward. As he did memories of his childhood floated unbidden to his mind. It had of course been the Black Moon Circle who had assaulted his village, many years ago in the far-off Tianzi Mountains. Their leader, the evil Han Xian, had laughed as his disciples, all masters of the forbidden Black Moon Style, had slaughtered his family and burnt their crops. In that moment Wang had sworn vengeance! His thoughts were interrupted by a howl as three warriors of the Black Moon Circle came crashing through a nearby window. The first one’s fist lashed out with blinding speed, its deadly black corona of corrupted Qi a harbinger of doom! But Dr Wang was a true master of the Spinning Scalpel style, and his hands were already whirring around him, deflecting the savage blow with ease and sending a razor thin sliver of steel into the hearts of two of his assailants. The other he grasped in one bloody, rubber-gloved hand and flung him into a wall with an audible crack of three of his thoracic vertebrae. “Who is leading your villainous band, malfeasant? I will challenge and defeat him, as I defeated your first leader Han Xiang!” The criminal swordsman coughed up blood as he gazed into Dr Wang’s steely eyes. “You know him well! It is Jian Wushuang, your former teacher!” At this fearful intelligence Dr Wang’s mind reeled - it could not be! The treacherous bandit, seeing his opportunity, scuttled away and Dr Wang sank to his knees, lost again in memory. It had been the wise Jian Wushuang who had led him away from the path of vengeance, schooling him in the intricacies of the Spinning Scalpel style over long years and eventually writing him a reference for medical school. “Young Wang,” he had said as Wang prepared his tea after another gruelling training, “The path of vengeance leads only to death. Instead, use your kung fu to foster life!” Dr Wang had lived by these words, the only exception being his confrontation with Han Xian when that fiend came to capture Professor Quan. In the circumstances, he reasoned, a certain discreet demonstration of his style was appropriate and Han Xian’s shattered xyphoid process was a legitimate consequence of his intended devilry. But this! Dr Wang wept a single, outraged tear that fell like a glittering jewel to the blood-spattered floor then splashed like the shattered remains of his faith. But then, his countenance hardened. There was only one place Jian could be - the cafeteria leading to the Orthopaedic Ward! He would challenge him at once. A few moments later Dr Wang crashed through the double doors, scalpels already ready in his fingers. The room was full of Black Moon Circle ruffians, who turned at his entry, but Dr Wang’s eyes were only on one man, who turned slowly. Jian Wushuang’s long white beard glinted in the fluorescent lights and his eyes were black as the sky at midnight. “Ah, Young Wang. I feared it might come to this.” “I am Young Wang no more! Why have you betrayed your ideals, your words to me, your kung fu! This is treachery beyond understanding!” They began to circle each other slowly. “Do you even begin to understand, Young Wang, why Han Xian attempted to capture Professor Quan?” There was the barest flicker of movement and three scalpels hissed towards Wang, who deflected them with precise gestures. They left trails of red on his hands. “Han Xian is a villain! He wields a corrupted style and his mind is full of evil!” Jian shook his head slowly. “No, Young Wang. Han Xian was working at my instruction.” “You lie!” cried Dr Wang, and with that battle was joined! A whirlwind barrage of scything kicks and slicing blades ensued, each man fighting with every fragment of kung fu at his disposal. The Black Moon Circle onlookers shielded their eyes as the blazing streamers of Qi grew ever brighter. At last, it was over. Dr Wang stood over the beaten body of his former master, panting and covered in streaks of blood. Then there was a noise behind him and he turned, with a gasp. Standing in the door was reknowned scientist Professor Quan, holding a blood-soaked sheet to her wounded side - and in her other hand she had a pistol! She sniffed as she saw that Jian was defeated but alive. “I am sorry, Dr Wang. My area of science is, as you may not know, geology, and my findings indicate that the Tianzi Mountains are full of valuable rare earth metals. I will be leading a project to demolish them, destroying all the villages already there, and use the rubble to make electronic equipment such as electric cars and microwave ovens. Accordingly I cannot afford to leave such a powerful Taoist swordsman opposing me." And with that chilling enunciation she pointed her pistol at Jian and pulled the trigger. Dr Wang was thunderstruck by this revelation, but his kung fu was still beyond reproach. Even as the trigger moved under Professor Quan's finger he flung a scalpel with lightning-quick accuracy. It met the bullet and sliced it in two, the fragments ricocheting back and into Professor Quan's face! She cried out and fell to the ground unconscious. "I cannot countenance the former actions of Han Xiang... but... " And with that solemn word he extended his hand to his former teacher, who took it and rose. "Will you fight with me against this evil, Young Wang?" Dr Wang smiled. "Young Wang, no. But Doctor Wang? Doctor Wang will fight by your side once more!"
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Jul 17, 2023 08:23
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Copernic posted:SUBTERRANEAN x WESTERN She'd come out here to die, she'd say with a wink, a mischievous grin beneath a wide-brimmed hat. "Weren't nothin' worth nothin'," back home in the glades. They'd told her she'd just go and get herself killed. But she knew how to ride and she knew how to shoot and cook and read and a lot more than that. Seemed a pity to content herself merely with survival when a life, maybe short, was out there for living. "Come out here to die." She coughed through cracked lips. Sprawled out against the sand it was a little less funny. A jut of rock afforded her a sliver of shade, but the heat of the sun was all consuming. The mailbag, her vocation, cradled her head. She glared into the distance of the red-baked earth. "Here lies Cassidy...well, she weren't lying." It'd been three days since her horse had been shot out from under her; two since she'd swallowed the last of her water. The canteen had saved her life in the fight. Better to bleed water than blood...maybe not. The bandit's corpse was weighed down with weaponry. His water had been poo poo and his food even worse. Only his compass proved worth the trouble. There were mountains to the East she thought, she was sure. She traveled by night. She couldn't much longer. Evening would come, though in the time between it felt like eternity. She shut her eyes tightly. "If you’re up there," she said, "Wouldn't mind a miracle. Go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life." No miracles seemed forthcoming in the moment, but strength enough to talk was strength enough to draw things out a little longer. An evening breeze roused her from her stupor. The setting sun had dyed the sky a brilliant, endless orange. Cassidy scuttled out from underneath her rock. She stretched her arms above her head and checked the borrowed compass. Looking East she saw the foothills rise before her. If she could just reach the mountains, she wasn't sure what she'd find, but anything had to be better than the desert. "Alright, alright, I'm coming, I’m coming." She carefully rolled her neck, hand against her nape. Dutifully slinging the mailbag over her shoulder, she checked her pistol before wandering out beneath the darkening sky. The weight of the mail had certainly started to weigh on her, but if she abandoned her bag, what all had she even come out here for? The rise of the earth was mercilessly steep, but climbing to the top revealed a welcome assortment of shapes: distant rectangles with slanted roofs; the work of man, not God, though no lights shone to greet her. Her stumbling had brought her to an old mining town, preserved in decay, tools abandoned where they lay. Some old company town that had up and died when the mines gave out or the profits bottomed out. “Ain’t no way to greet a lady,” she muttered to herself when she spied an old shed marked in fading EQUIPMENT. She’d lost her lantern but carried her own oil. She gathered up old ones till one finally worked, bathing her environs in soft yellow light. Moving from one building to another, she picked through whatever might prove to be useful. Cassidy knew better than to expect food and drink, but a map would be appreciated. Directions to a river, or perhaps a train station. Rummaging around in what she deduced to be the foreman’s office, she came across a logbook. “Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,” she said, hacking. She flipped through its contents. Numbers, land surveys, and finally “Water!” The miners had uncovered an underground reservoir. It had seen a little use before the company boarded it up. Men kept wandering down and disappearing. Cassidy shut the book with a snap, her old confidence slowly creeping back into her features, even as weary and troubled as she was. That the miners had disappeared barely even registered. She was dead either way. “One last adventure.” Helping herself to some mining supplies, she foraged her way towards the mouth of the mines. A long, lonesome tunnel stretched out before her, infinitely more inviting than the wide, oppressive sky. Loosening a few boards, she stepped into the darkness, one hand against the wall with her lantern in the other. The old cart tracks proved simple to follow, until the cavern opened up and her path split out. She fished out the log book and checked the dates. The reservoir had been discovered not too long before the company had shuttered the operation. Glancing about, she noted which tunnels seemed safer, reinforced. She slipped down the crudest one, the youngest she suspected. The tracks she’d been following stopped short of the split. With a grim little grin, she crawled ever downward. The monotone chasm spiraled down into the earth, until it finally blossomed out into a cavern, a natural formation both yawning and majestic. There at the bottom, she eyed her prize: crystal clear water, an underground lake. Stumbling out of the shaft, she tripped over herself as she sprinted towards the water, kicking up dirt, eyes wide and hungry. Collapsing at the shore of her salvation, she threw off her hat and plunged her head deep into the water. A shock to the system, thought a deeply welcome one. She took a mighty gulp before coming up for air, flopping back against the cavern. “Holy..hallelujah!” She could’ve drunk it dry. Casting aside her clothes and equipment, though taking great care with her lantern and pistol, she dove into the water, and her coarse, tanned body knew instant relief. The cruelty of the long sun melted away in the invasive cold of that shimmering pool. Her thoughts of death evaporated, replaced with fond memories of her and her siblings going swimming in the marshes. But those waters were muddied, difficult to discern. In such clear, vivid water she could see the lakebed. Smooth stones circled beneath, down into darkness. It was when the darkness moved she came back to reality. A murky shape shifted and sprang forth from the depths, a bloated, hairless body with an eel-like head. Within its mouth sat rows of needles, its blank, empty eyes sightless, but not senseless. A rush of adrenaline seized her body. Cassidy broke for the surface of the lake. Her first gasp of air brought a shuddering upon her. She scrambled for the shore where she’d left her things, only to be confronted by another primeval thing. A large lizard of some sort had come down to the pool, possibly attracted by the sounds of celebration. Its eyes were black marbles. It fluttered its tongue, though it did not exude the same hostility as the creature below. It cocked its head as she emerged from the water. She stood stark still for a second, blinking, before instinct took over. She leaped for the shore. The eel-head snapped after her, missing her by inches. The lizard chirped in fear, and the monster took note. Ignoring Cassidy in favor of this new, meatier prey, it lunged for the creature’s tail, its razor sharp teeth sinking deep into the lizard’s tail. Cassidy took cover behind the rocks. She’d half a mind to let the lizard suffer for her, but its wailing cry kindled an unexpected sympathy within her. Taking up her pistol, she held it in both hands, and aimed for where the monster’s long, thin neck connected with its bloated, blubbery body. She fired once, a murderous crack, and the lake monster howled, releasing its prey. It faced her once more, teeth grit, but wary. Reflected in the lamp light, she could see her bullet embedded in its gullet. “You’re a thick-skinned one, ain’tcha?” Again she cocked the pistol. The lake monster took that as the signal to attack, when the lizard, now freed, slammed its weight against the monster’s over-extended neck. Cassidy calmed her breathing. She aimed for the eyes. Another bang echoed deep into the cave, and the eel’s gaping eye socket burst forth with pain. The monster recoiled and snaked back into the lake, leaving Cassidy and the lizard in silence. The moment of action having passed, Cassidy slumped down against the ground, panting harshly. “Now there’s a tough fella.” She wiped her brow. The lizard stuck its tongue defiantly towards the lake before returning its attention to its fellow survivor. “Hey,” said Cassidy with a wave of her hand. She offered it a smile, weak but well-meaning. She glanced down at the bite marks where the monster had seized it. “What say we clean that up?” It was two days before Cassidy returned to civilization, and she didn’t come alone, riding proudly on her lizard. The locals stumbled backwards as they sauntered into town. She gave them a wink and a tip of her hat. “Mail’s here,” she said. Her lizard steed chirped.
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Jul 17, 2023 10:29
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mine was WUXIA x MEDICAL DRAMA
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Jul 17, 2023 10:39
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submissions CLOSED
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Jul 17, 2023 14:05
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Week 571 Judgment Post For all the ritualized groaning, when the call went out, the Thunderdome showed up. Nearly everyone took a harrowing spin, and many delivered on the most puzzling premises. Kuiperdolin told a story of judgment, and they too were judged. The Technicality wins this mashed-up week with a seamless story. HMs go to: Flerp [Game in Exile] Chernobyl Princess [Spilling the Tea] Sebmojo [The Flying Steel of Doctor Wang] Clearly you know how to judge, Kuiperdolin! The next week is yours! Crits to follow.
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Jul 18, 2023 01:55
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My critiques are fueled by your approval, so send me a thanks in discord or in the Thunderlounge thread. I may have been a bit more critical than normal as I was judging. Also if you want to discuss your critique post in those other threads. I'll complete the rest of my critiques by Friday. Game In Exile This piece doesn't have a lot of thrust to it. Our character is exiled, and conveniently explains that they can survive rather easily (more on that later) and we take a bit to get to the struggle of how our educated character has to try and "live" in a world where his very ideas are condemned and the reason they got exiled/self-exiled. In order to live, the character come sup with a game, and I hit a small snag here. I'm not too big on exposition, less so when its an imaginary game, and this part didn't pique my interest. I'm not too interested in deciphering the rules to see if its checkers or go. As well, I think the game inclusion could have been expanded on, as is the protagonist is like "Player one always wins" without exploring the reason why, and instead diving into world building. We then dive into modifying the game, and we see the results. The game becomes a small metaphor to the Republic, our character hopes they are still sane, and the story highlights how the only thing we have done is play the game. I found the being left in the internals of the character caused the story to be a lot of nothing happening. A part of Robsinoande is the struggle to survive and the mystique around an unknown island, which you pushed out of the way in your story to foucs on inner reflection. It's a great getting into the thoughts of a character piece, but really missing that sympathetic action, or plot thrust, to get me to tag along. It's not a bad story, far from it though. The writing style is very introspective, and explores the mind of this character while dealing with his struggle to grow and live while marooned. However, I think the ROBINSONADE genre was used as a setting, rather than genre, and that the character comes across as depressed. I do like how the character rebels by creating the game, and by doing so tries to live. I like the concept of living vs survival, a worthy goal. However, in the end nothing changes, and nothing that the prose has covered convinces me of this hopeful ending. Damage Assessment This piece also stalls out at the start. The whole first scene is meeting Ted's handler, His wife (Good instinct on that, makes Ted sympathetic) but none of this matters. The first 586 words can be cut, and summed up in a few sentences while still maintaining the political thriller genre. Sorry to be so abrasive, but this is because I FREAKING LOVE THE START OF SCENE 2. Hell yeah, we got character motivations, implied danger implied in 3 quick sentences. Then we expand the scene and see people have died, we don't know why, but we see our character's reaction and can imply things from that. drat, good stuff, makes me think, makes me ask good questions and I want to continue to read. Action scene is okay, gets the job done. I don't think we need the 3rd or 4th scene, as it just describes out protagonist's survival. Much more interesting to focus on other stakes. The story just ends... Like, once Lev disappeared from the story, it got way less interesting. You had good instincts having Ted lie to Lev, and I would have liked to see more relationship drama. I do see you ran out of words, but I do feel "My character tried but failed" plot doesn't add much to theisstory unless we explore the consequences of that failure, the relationships that will be strained/blossom because of that failure. Couple of things on your prose: 1) Ted went inside. It was a rental, with dead grass and concrete. (We go inside, then describe outside) 2) Dan was dressed XYZ, and holding a folder. Ted did things and said hello. Dan smiled. The man was ABC. (We describe the character twice in the same format) 3). The man caught the edge of the door on his cheek, sending him crashing to the ground. Ted whirled through, putting a round down into the merc's chest and spraying two more towards another in the hall. They went wide but sent the man sprawling. (There has only been one man described so far, and its the guy that just got a slug in the chest. Story follows political thriller and Nautical adventure pretty well. Half of the story is setup to...setup. and the rest of the plot suffers. Nothing overtly bad, just ran out of words with this one and didn't have time to setup stakes/explore relationships. Looking forward to your next story, or your revisions on this one. Moonlight Italics being song lyrics makes the format feel broken. Unlike your previous piece, where the repeating words formed a drum beat, because we have the song lyrics so close to the repeating phrase, I can't get a rhythm from the piece. Here the repetition doesn't work because its side by side. A quick double beat, instead of the pounding bass of a drum forcing us to break up the text. (Really, the first time you did this the repetition almost worked like a period, to show us the separate sentences). This would work well if there was some kind of tone or way to make the reader read the piece differently. (Yes I know its in italics, but that doesn't convey enough tone or strength to made me read it differently, just see it differently). So now that the rhythm has been broken, we have to figure out what the story is. While the paranoid theme comes across, the actual plot takes a bit to decipher. I believe we have a paranoid/schizophrenic that is stalking Ariadne Grande, or triggered by her songs, and they crash in their car. During the crash they think about the time they saw Ariadne Grande (Or whatever poor women has taken her place). We then warp back to the crash, and I think a girl was in the passenger seat and is dead. Then we warp the a year in a coma, our character wakes up, is sad they don't have Ariadne Grande, then decides to listen to her music and go driving again. The form helps the paranoia genre, like we totally know this person isn't right in the head due to the way the story is told. But I find the form obfuscates the story, and when we decipher it, there isn't much story here. When I look at the story, I can only think that the format it is written in hinders it, in this case, and can raise examples written by yourself where the form was executed better. I keep asking myself why form is important, form is effort, form is understandable, I keep asking myself why it matters, to understand is to have an effect, to let the author in, to give your heart away I keep asking myself what went wrong, there is no form, but the form doesn't benefit the story, the story doesn't benefit the form, I keep asking myself why this way and in the end, I hear silence. A Ghost of a Heist Starting with a dramatis personae list is a choice! I think it works for me because their is humor in it — Penelope's introduction is hilarious — and some voice. I do think we have a lot of character's in a 1500 word piece. Penelope, Odysseus stood out in dialogue, I could tell who was speaking by what they were saying. William/Will and Charles/Black Bart didn't stand out as much and I found they were interchangeable. In fact I think Will has one line of dialogue, then disappears from the story. This was a tough read, but you did have a tough genre to follow. I found myself having to go back several sentences back to figure out who was who (I completely missed that Penelope and Odysseus were husband and wife), who the heck Knox was, and actually where our setting was. I had to look up your genre to figure out where we were, and then figured it out with this awesome line: "In life, King Henry had palaces. In death, he had already carved himself a sizeable place in the underworld." Also love that you put "I have a bad feeling about this". In the end I was rooting for Penelope I liked this piece, but didn't love this piece. It's such a cool concept, the piece has great humor and voice and dialogue. There were a few barriers to love though: 1) At the start we have great dialogue, but not a lot of motivation, and general confusion over where we are. With such great dialogue though, I did find that it lacked motivation and sympathy for the characters. 2) I like the doctor scene, as we know have agency and sympathy for the main characters. I do find that we are relying on people knowing who the heck Robert Knox is, to make the antagonist more of an antagonist. As well, as soon as we get to the twist, you ran out of words and had to end the story rather awkwardly. Cool piece that merges both genres well and effectively. The Bangsian genre is used quite well, but for me needed a brief introduction, or if you rearranged some of the story to introduce the setting earlier. While lacking in motivation in the first half, the piece makes up for it with characters and dialogue. Quite interested in revisions or if you were going to take this piece farther. Spilling The Tea This is a solid scene. It's competently written. It's a shame that I have read a lot of sci-fi stories. I can't really fault this for what it. I want you to know this shows off your skills as a writer. But we are here for critiques so lets dive into it. Your genre was MATRON LITERATURE and TECH NOIR. You wrote a competent scene with an old character and using netrunner lingo. My main issue is we can replace the old character with anyone. I didn't find the bridge component or the tea component necessary for her age. Her age only effects her internal thoughts and the line "felt like one interminable hot flash". The character's age doesn't matter in the story. I would be happy to read this in a novel where a side character has to do something, succeeds and we move onto the main plot. That highlights what my main issue is. The character is rather flat and we don't explore much of her age, and in a weird way actually just use stereotypes to show she is old. Like it's not a bad thing to use stereotypes, but it's just so generic. The Netrunning lingo is something I have encountered before so many times. Nothing is wrong with the way you used it, but nothing stands out either. It's generic. Then finally our character hits some obstacles. There is ice! There is a nosy shop keeper! And nothing happens our character succeeds. I think the ending is a bit flat as well. It might be implied that Flo was grabbing the customer list to figure out Agnes drink blend, but the implication is barebones and the impact is we are buying a nice, heartfelt gift for a character who I have no idea who they are, and the gift might just be so Fio can get cozy with the leader of the bridge club, dampening any heartfelt emotion this gift might inspired from the reader. My main grip with this story is how generic it is and how nothing happens. Our character encounters obstacles, but easily gets past them. Our character buys a gift for someone, but the motivations are questionable. Our character is old, but it doesn't matter. If this is overly negative it is because I am invested in the story. Ya got me into it, I was immersed in your world, but I wanted more. A competent, story that would fit well in any novel, but perhaps is a bit bland. A Tasmanian Devil This start is engaging and sets up a question, establishes tone (Humor) and voice quite effectively. I also think you used the genres effectively, though you might be siding a bit on setting on the "Tasmanian Gothic" side of things. (Though since you had Menippean Satire, I have no clue how you could implemented both). I loved this piece. Snappy dialogue that follows a decision the character has to make. A funny character going up against a straight man talking about ridiculous things. We don't linger on imagery or metaphors, nor do we slow the pace down. In the end our character makes a decision. This was awesome. Awesome
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Jul 18, 2023 02:11
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Week 572 : Family saga, short form  Give me a story involving three generations (at least) of the same family. 1000 words brought me luck, so that's what you get too. The deadline for registering is 21/07 (this Friday), 23:59 CET. The deadline for posting is 23/07 (this Sunday), 23:59 CET. You can ask for a flash rule and I'll give you the relationship between the generations. May the best story win. I would also like some co-judges. The ambitious scions : beep-beep car is go Thranguy ActingPower Fat Jesus Bad Seafood Rohan Green Wing Chairchucker The judgemental elders : Kuiperdolin Doctor Zero ?? Kuiperdolin fucked around with this message at 23:02 on Jul 21, 2023 |
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Jul 18, 2023 02:30
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I’m in. I’d like to participate.
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Jul 18, 2023 03:01
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Shenanigans Alert Next week will see the Thunderdome's Eleventh Birthday Celebration. As such the winner of the current week will judge the week after that. The winner of the birthday week will get...something else. Also, in.
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Jul 18, 2023 03:55
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my ten year old wrote his own story after being inspired by this week's stories: The Secret of Kidpernic It was a normal day at Kidpernic Business Co. Ted was going to his business meeting at 10:10 They told him to finish 3 pages of paperwork by Thursday He was appalled until they told IF he finished the paperwork he could go to the BIG CORPORATE MEETING!!! He said yes immediately and went home His wife was appalled until he told her IF he did the paperwork he could go to the BIG CORPORATE MEETING!!! She said yes immediately and went to the bathroom Long story short he finished it. The executives told he at the meeting he would go to Tasmaninon He was worried though ‘cause no other worker had came back from there Long story short he got there. Surprisingly the city was bustling with people and beautiful houses They welcomed him with open arms and hot cocoa He could now see why his friends at Kidpernic didn’t come back He asked to see his friends and they surprisingly said yes They took him to a cave with a narrow entrance In the cave he saw all his friends Edward, his business partner, came over to him Ted started talking about financial security He wanted to see his friend and check him out (to see if he was okay) But Edward kept not letting Ted see his back Ted finally turned him around and saw his back There was a big gaping hole filled with wires and robot stuff That was when he saw the door A big black door Ted reached for it, his heart pounding, while all his other friends yelled “NO!” Inside was bloody guts, muscles, and brains It was like they scooped a hole in each of his friend’s bodys He ran outside and saw not only was the town deserted, but there was a big building in the distance He headed towards it and saw that it was a Kidpernic building He sneaked inside and saw full on robots talking and stuffing guts out of corpses He got a plane home and confronted Kidpernic The newspaper, three months later Hi , and welcome to flashbacks! Today we will be talking about a man who confronted Kidpernic The man, 39, had NO reason to confront this amazing company! I’ve been there, and it was amazing The man, Ted Tangalou now keeps working for Kidpernic, now completely loyal and obedient to his bosses. The End By Kidpernic My topic was FINANCIAL THRILLER x COSMIC HORROR Crits welcome
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Jul 18, 2023 03:56
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Week 571 Crits Flerp / Game in Exile: This was a strong contender to win. Putting Crusoe on an asteroid was a good choice. Mostly I was struck by the inventiveness of the game conceit, a creation of sheer ingenuity that by itself impressed. You gave yourself wood and sand, and made a moving vehicle out of it. How do I feel about outright explaining the metaphor to the reader? Frankly I was not seeing it on my own, so spelling it out was obviously the right move. And I think it pairs with the didactic element common to Crusoe books. Good work. Ouzo Maki / Damage Assessment: I felt like this drew from a wellspring of tropes without ever establishing its own energy and flow. Damaged protagonist, seasoned handler, action-adventure scene... all things I've read before. And the scenes lacked a connectivity to each other. Shouldn't Ted's inner issues have some connection to Lev? What purpose did the handler scene really have, especially as we lost out on more nautical action? This told a Nautical Action-Adventure but I didn't feel like it was YOUR Nautical Action-Adventure. All this being said my kid really loved this one. Perhaps I'm the jaded reader. Derp / Moonlight I could not get over what I felt like was a basic problem with the story -- a poet's treasury of carefully husbanded description deployed in service of a humdrum premise. Car accident with dead partner, a stock scene. No amount of lipstick can make me kiss this pig. And yes, the lipstick was slathered on with skill. But I needed a reason to smooch. Doctor Zero / Mind the GAAP This was written with verve and wit. My kid had the same issue with it I did -- I wanted more. Too little happens, too slowly. A lot of the setup before the black goop could've been cut, and a lot after it, as well. With such a slow plod in the setup the final turn to cosmic insanity comes almost as an afterthought, without sufficient foreshadowing. A sense of "oh, thats all." There was a missed opportunity here to bring more cosmic horror heat. DigitalRaven / A Ghost of A Heist An Ocean's Eleven of the afterlife's best was the right setup, and the story gestures at a delightful "each with their special talent" icy-cool thriller. But the caper story itself is muddled and indistinct, and the turn into the Liston stuff was a bizaare turn to me. It didn't fit Caper at all, and gave your cast no way to shine. Chernobyl Princess / Spilling the Tea A delightful and charming story executed with casual skill. How do I feel that a central mystery, WHY this tea shop is so guarded, was never explained? On balance I think I am for it -- I don't think a story needs to tie every loose end. But I did notice it. The twist objective of the hacking antics was well appreciated. Some points deducted from a lack of real suspense. Oh no, the tea register boy might be annoyed. Albatrossy_Rodent / A Tasmanian Devil This was easily the hardest prompt. And yes, it does pull off Tasmanian Gothic x Menippean Satire. The Devil element harkens to The Master and Margarita, plopped in Tasmania. Kudos, and in only 562 words. But for all that, there's just a disappointing hint of the gothic, and hardly any plot to boot. Ultimately this read more like a list of references to Oz than a fully-formed story, with a vegemite patter that was more painful than witty. But full marks for effort. Kuiperdolin / The Technicality Not just a Dying Earth story but in full command of that obscure genre, with everything that makes it strange and great. Mysterious characters barely hinting at their lengthy backstories, casual references to epochal change, and all presented through eons of legal precedent. The twist at the end was adroitely signposted but pulled off with talent. I also think its a good decision to write a lot of dialogue. Dialogue is just more interesting than paragraphs of description. My Shark Waifuu / The Book of The Dead Almost painfully earnest. This story was very solid in both the good and bad sense. It told a story simply and without ornament. But it also never quite told me why I should keep reading, what character or plot element or twist or wit I was taking away. I needed a spark that brought more to a straightforward story about this kid and his dead Dad. Also, was this an alternate history story? What was alternate? Thranguy / Small Miracles There's a lot of good ideas in here, not quite assembled correctly. We start with action, always a good idea -- but then it segues into a long middle section explaining the premise, and the premise never quite has much to do with the action sections of beating up Nazis, and then the concluding scene has no real action and is a little bit pat. It also talks about horny but doesn't commit to being horny. Sebmojo / The Flying Steel of Doctor Wang An impressive parody, which drops whistle-out-loud lines in almost every paragraph, and there are a lot of paragraphs. This one felt like it was born out of deep, committed study to its genre, and benefited from it. I worry that this one suffered in judging by being so drat silly -- is there an inherent prejudice against wacky stories? After all, I could hardly ask for better wackiness. Bad Seafood / The Deep Down Under A well-told yarn in the classic western vein. To be honest, I think I was hard on this story because I kept expecting some big twist, emerging in the deep depths of hollow earth, and couldn't quite appreciate a rolicking reptile steed adventures. But I do think there's only so much a reader gets out of 700-800 words of walking through a mining camp and into a mine, until we get into the big lizard action. If you're gonna have a cowboy fight a dinosaur I think it should happen most of, if not all of, the 1500 words.
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Jul 18, 2023 04:55
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Copernic posted:
This story is super adorable. I remember when I was 10 years old, I wrote this terrible story about ducks getting stuck in bags, and the hero ran around and did random things to get them out. (I'm not sure where the idea came from; I definitely had never heard of Ape Escape.) Anyways, hope I'm not disappointing you, Kidpernic, but I'm not gonna give you real crit. You're 10 years old; you're still in your "million words of bad writing" phase, and I wouldn't want to discourage you. But I hope you had fun writing it!  Oh, and also this prompt sounds awesome. I'm totally in like Flynn.
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Jul 18, 2023 05:25
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(A line-by-line critique of) The Secret of Kidpernic by Kidpernic (by Bad Seafood) It was a normal day at Kidpernic Business Co. A traditional opening, but solid; establishes the scene and a sense of normalcy, which will no doubt be upended. Ted was going to his business meeting at 10:10 Moving right along, we have our first (presumably main) character. It's rarely a good idea to keep the audience waiting for their viewpoint character, and the second sentence is as fine a place as any to drop them in. Some people go paragraphs before the first human shows up. They told him to finish 3 pages of paperwork by Thursday Storytelling is often the art of selective omission. A lot of amateur writers will stuff their stories full of extraneous details, but Kidpernic cuts right to the heart of things. It's obvious who 'They' are without further explanation. Good instincts, this kid. He was appalled until they told IF he finished the paperwork he could go to the BIG CORPORATE MEETING!!! And the pitch. In a vacuum, 'three pages of paperwork' is a little too ambiguous to mean much to us, the readers, but now we've been graced with two all-important revelations, communicated discretely through Ted's own reactions. Whatever his business, three pages of paperwork (by Thursday) is apparently an unreasonable workload, but the promise of the BIG CORPORATE MEETING!!! is enough to incentivize him to tackle this challenge. Normally one exclamation point (!) would be plenty, but in this case it works as a stylistic choice (especially since you do it every time). He said yes immediately and went home A transitory sentence, not much to say. Workmanlike, but it gets the job done. His wife was appalled until he told her IF he did the paperwork he could go to the BIG CORPORATE MEETING!!! At first this sentence seems redundant, but it helps to reinforce a key distinction regarding Ted's character. When he initially balked at being given three whole pages of paperwork to finish (by Thursday), there were two possible interpretation of this development: that three pages of paperwork (by Thursday) is an obscene about of work, or that the prospect of doing three pages of paperwork (by Thursday) is the expected workload but Ted is just lazy. That Ted's wife shares his visceral reaction to three pages of paperwork (by Thursday) confirms the former scenario is more likely canon. Presuming the traditional American nuclear family model, I imagine Ted's wife is the stay-at-home sort, whose livelihood is dependent on her husband's industry, in which case it is questionable (though not impossible) she would tolerate his laziness. That she understands the significance of the BIG CORPORATE MEETING!!! and is also swayed by it suggests that Ted is very open about his work and keeps his wife in the loop, details which make us more inclined to like Ted. He is a hard-worker and a dutiful husband. She said yes immediately and went to the bathroom It's a little thing, but the fact that she said yes despite not being the one tasked with three pages of paperwork (by Thursday) suggests Ted solicited her opinion and values her feedback, and perhaps might have even changed his mind if his wife were against it. These things help to make Ted a more realized character, though in exchange his wife fares a little worse. She never re-emerges from the bathroom once she enters, suggesting she's more of a prop than a character. Sometimes a prop is what you need, but a little color can make a prop more distinct. Long story short he finished it. I'm tempted to say this is the first real misstep of the story. The narrative makes a big deal about how daunting thee pages of paperwork (by Thursday) is, then it's settled in a moment. In retrospect these pages of paperwork (three of them, by Thursday) mostly serve as the inciting incident, explaining how someone like Ted might gain an invitation BIG CORPORATE MEETING!!!, which is implicitly presented as something he would ordinarily be unable to attend, but it's a little jarring to abandon it so easily. The executives told he at the meeting he would go to Tasmaninon Told 'Him.' He was worried though ‘cause no other worker had came back from there The BIG CORPORATE MEETING!!! is similarly glossed over. I'm starting to worry this story is writing checks it can't cash. Ted's reward for more work is...more work, and while this work isn't as immediately shocking as three page of paperwork (by Thursday), it is still presented as undesirable, though perhaps in a less immediately terrifying manner. All this to say the characterization of Ted's corporate overlords is flawless in its accuracy, but I am not a bit more puzzled by Ted's earlier enthusiasm. And it's 'come' back. Long story short he got there. Be careful of overusing a specific turn of the phrase. Deliberate repetition can be a useful tool, but if it's done haphazardly it just feels sloppy. Surprisingly the city was bustling with people and beautiful houses This isn't necessarily surprising on its own, though it does suggest Ted thought otherwise. Considering his apprehension over being dispatched to a location no one had ever returned from, Ted likely assumed the worst of this place, expecting something more lonely and run-down. This also suggests Ted himself hails from a more comfortable community, adding his socioeconomic status to his long list of discretely communicated character traits. They welcomed him with open arms and hot cocoa The city as a whole, or a select group of people? Earlier 'They' was perfectly self-sufficient, but a little more context would be better here. He could now see why his friends at Kidpernic didn’t come back A fun little spin on a classic premise. No one ever returned, not because they were killed but because they never wanted to leave. This relief creates a new mystery, however: surely, if they were Ted's friends, they would have called or written him about it, not wanting to exclude him. Ted's fears are briefly settled, but the intrigue grows. He asked to see his friends and they surprisingly said yes Again, this sentence is a little too vague. Who are 'they' and why would it be surprising after they already revealed themselves to be friendly? They took him to a cave with a narrow entrance Now we're talking. A cave in a city is actually unexpected. Now I want to know what's really going on. In the cave he saw all his friends Another sentence which, on the surface, says something boilerplate, but suggests something more. 'All' his friends are in this cave? Why they here? What's going on? It's good to have the reader asking these questions, provided you intend to present an answer. Edward, his business partner, came over to him It's always a little risky to introduce new characters this late into the narrative, though this is also when we realize none of Ted's friends have made an appearance before this point, a simple omission which suddenly takes on a new meaning. Ted's friends were unmentioned not because they were unimportant, nor because he didn't have them, but because they were here...but again, why? Ted started talking about financial security This reads a bit weird. Ted being money-conscience isn't an unacceptable development, but this seems like a strange place to bring it up. I could see it as a sign of him being married to his job or the like, but he didn't seem married to it earlier. He wanted to see his friend and check him out (to see if he was okay) You can strike out the bit in parenthesis entirely. At no point did I think Ted, who by all accounts appears to be happily married to a woman, was gay or bisexual, nor that his emotional investment in his friends was predicated on any kind of romantic inclinations. Normalize brotherly love. But Edward kept not letting Ted see his back Although there was always an air of mystery hanging over the back-half of this story, this is the first turn that's explicitly sinister. All Ted's friends being in a cave together is odd, but open-ended enough for some zany explanation. Edward shifting around, hiding his back, is awkward and strange and more overtly disconcerting. Now we know we're in for something. Ted finally turned him around and saw his back And now the reveal. There was a big gaping hole filled with wires and robot stuff Oof! There it is. I can see it in my mind's eye. It's jarring visual, one befitting the build-up. That was when he saw the door A big black door Ordinarily I might complain about hiding a detail like this until now, but reading things from Ted's point of view, it makes sense his friends would be the immediate point of focus for him, such that the door (a big black door no-less, in a presumably ill-lit cave) might escape his notice until this point. The door itself is suitably ominous, and sticks out all the more for being strictly defined in a world of otherwise sparse description. Ted reached for it, his heart pounding, while all his other friends yelled “NO!” I notice they yell, but none of them try to stop him, least of all Edward. Are they unable to stop him? If so, why? Inside was bloody guts, muscles, and brains It was like they scooped a hole in each of his friend’s bodys And the other shoe drops with a visceral description (which tastefully avoids being too grotesque). The horror of this reveal works on two levels. The immediate visual of people having their insides carved out and replaced with machinery is already an uncomfortable one for a lot of people, but the subtext of corporate inhumanity keeps this from feeling like a sudden genre shift. Lots of people in the business world dedicate themselves to the company that employs them, either out of a desire to advance or having been brow-beaten by corporate messaging. We lose what makes us human, surrendering our identities and autonomy to the will of the economic machine. Ted's friends are no longer human, but merely extensions of company they serve, something they wish to hide from the public, but which is intrinsically recognizable with any level of introspection. This is a great twist. He ran outside and saw not only was the town deserted, but there was a big building in the distance Ah, a company town. He headed towards it and saw that it was a Kidpernic building He sneaked inside and saw full on robots talking and stuffing guts out of corpses This feels a little quick after all the build-up earlier, though it works well enough to reaffirm the audience's reading regarding the inherent inhumanity of corporate work culture. Your whole story clocks-in at about 400 words, but Copernic gave everyone a cool 1,000 to play with. I admire your committed to an economy of words, but this is once place you could have splurged a little. Still what's here is a powerful image, though I do wonder why they kept the guts in the cave (with Ted's friends) and not somewhere attached to the main disemboweling operation. He got a plane home and confronted Kidpernic I've got a bad feeling about this. The newspaper, three months later Hi , and welcome to flashbacks! Today we will be talking about a man who confronted Kidpernic The man, 39, had NO reason to confront this amazing company! I’ve been there, and it was amazing The man, Ted Tangalou now keeps working for Kidpernic, now completely loyal and obedient to his bosses. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yq7FKO5DlV0 And just like that, the horror comes full circle. He loved the company. An unsettling ending. That said, it sounds a bit more like a television broadcast than a newspaper. Rather than rewrite the whole speech, I'd advise just saying it was someone on TV. The sharp cut from their implied confrontation to the article months later is jarring, but it works (not unlike the ending of Richard Connell's famous short story, the Most Dangerous Game). Though the in-world readership haven't a clue, we the audience know the terrible truth, and I appreciate your willingness to let us connect the dots ourselves. Too many authors aren't willing to risk that. The End Thanks for sharing! 
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Jul 18, 2023 05:55
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I'm in.
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Jul 18, 2023 08:31
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E:  Kuiperdolin I'll be a judge. Doctor Zero fucked around with this message at 19:08 on Jul 18, 2023 |
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Jul 18, 2023 19:05
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week 570 crits this was a p deece week, but remember: triangles not straight lines. waking up a tight weird little yarn that bedithers the line between dreams and reality in an interesting way. the sweet, light, little relationship between the protag and their hobbit friend hits the world and evaporates, along with somethng else. nice control in how it uses colour. of bears wolves and foxes competent and well-formed, though having the turn around be a falling tummy feels a little lazy, just as a way of describing the sensation. when you write something like that, consider the cliche as a placeholder that you revisit. don't be afraid to be awkward and embarassing. Solid piece though maybe verging on the generic? HELP I'M TRYIN TO DATE HERE okay that's a bangin opener. and you absolutely pay it off. what a slick, nasty piece, leaving exactly the right number of uncertainty coins on the table - these people will never know what was what and why. the average male life expectancy you use the word gently caress 24 times in this, which isn't actually disqualifying as it's p on point for the style of yarn, though i think i would have liked it better if you'd have gone full irvine on it with the dialect. that said! this is not bad, i believe the insanely hosed up weegie world you're giving me, and i want to get immersed in ewen's predicament, but, goddammit, i don't understand it. it's really a very simple yarn but i don't get why dougie gets sent back to arthur? also, work on clarity around who's who (mentioning doug's name in the first para would help) and tidy up yer para spacing, man, good lord. nice progress though! derp i like this sad little sketch of a sad little man, but i want something to change? he starts out sad and little and ends sad and little and that's fiiiine, but i think there's a notch further you could have taken this. excellent components, something missing in the assembly. that said, I think there's a subtlety i missed in my first read, which is quite how much he yearns for the intricacy and oddity of his hot student's take on the world, wants and cannot have, and the sly ambiguity of her response to his grumpy message. tbc this kind of sublety is great, and it's on me for missing the first time round. outstanding contribution this is tidy enough, and I don't hate your words, but there's such a thing as over egging the pudding and then there's this which p much mixes up a giant bowl of yolky #7 speckleds and calls it a fruitcake. i think you do a good job with the tone, and the overall impact would be improved if you dialled it back 30%. as is the joke (executioner is dumb as a sack of hammers that have been rejected by QA at the hammer factory for their overweening dumbness) is rolled out and we are left to chortle at it for a slightly uncomfortable length of time. pipe nightmares ok, thought experiment here - what would this story be like if it started at the first **** ? that is to say, what if you deleted the entire first half? you'd lose a bunch of perfectly competent garage sale describing words, but actually, mr plactually, are they really relevant to the story? you'd also need to explain the setup, but that could be done in a line or two. what that would also do is give you way more words to describe the actually interesting bit which is demons in an organ. that's neat! i want to hear about that more than jumble sale description ngl. that aside, i feel like the demons need some more connection to the characters involved? not sure what that would look like, as is it's a bit like getting a house with a weird leak but it's demons not rain iykwim gravity yeah, this is fairly solid all up, it's main problem is that it's a brick falling on head story - you know the sort, it's called 'the brick that fell on my head' the first line is 'so there was this brick' and the last line is 'it really hurt'. there's nothing intrinsically wrong with brick stories, but if you find yourself writing one that's a sign to look for something more to add. could there be a reason why gaius is such an idiot? how does he feel about the station, or the black hole? how can you make your straight line story into a triangle? against that, your last para really is killer - very slick and effective way of demonstrating consequences that have gone beyond words. the noise this didn't do very much for me, for all it's perfectly competent word wise. it's also a kind of brick story - "the protagonist didn't like the noise. she doesn't like it at the beginning, she doesn't like it at the end. it sucks! she hates that noise. her co-workers are oblivious."you could replace the title with those sentences and we would not have gained any additional understanding about any of the people involved. again, write triangles not straight lines. what is an additional fact or even that would leverage these (good) words into a more interesting story? i don't think it would take much. the firebird there is a specific genre of story this is emulating, which is the rock-ribbed 1940s-50s sci fi where cool-eyed and jut-chinned men of science and action grappled with the problems in front of them. it's a fun style to write in and this is a fun story to read, not least because it takes a hard left into trippy new wave drug sci fi half way through, all paint-smeared swirls and 'i just took acid and hoo do i have some imagery to write'. that said i think a real 50s sci fi yarn would establish the problem (vis a vis alter space being a freaky land of swirling gently caress) a lot quicker - they were nothing if not economical, as is it is a bit out of left field to the reader but clearly not to the protagonist. there's also an issue with the protagonist not actually looking for the lost engineers? she just sort of gets woobied then comes back, which makes the whole exercise a little pointless? #lockdownlyfe this didn't grab me as much as my co-judges - good words, and i guess that's a good twist, but the ending has that 'oh no deadline' feeling to it which i personally am v familiar with but upon which i am still am obliged to cast a stern eye and reproving comment. the description and character work is all very precise though, it's a tiny little tale, told pretty well.
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Jul 19, 2023 00:24
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In.
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Jul 19, 2023 13:18
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in
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Jul 19, 2023 14:05
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Since it came up on the Discord, You can ask for a flash rule and I'll give you the relationship between the generations.
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Jul 19, 2023 16:50
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In,  (due to failure last round)
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Jul 19, 2023 23:09
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My critiques are fueled by your approval, so send me a thanks in discord or in the Thunderlounge thread. I may have been a bit more critical than normal as I was judging. Also if you want to discuss your critique post in those other threads. Mind The Gaap The start is a bit of a stuck in mud feel. We have a protagonist that is thinking back on a conversation they previously had, and is angry about it. Didn't really stand out for me, as its a bit vague. He could be angry at Carrie for any number of reasons. Still, I get a bit of Laundry files vibes to it. Kind of office boredom/busywork with supernatural elements. As I continue to read, I felt no sympathy for your protagonist. The fact that they don't really think about Nelson reflects badly on them. Just a quick note, the mix up between Pharmaceutival company drilling for oil doesn't really matter. More focused on the character interactions here. The plot is rather expository, or maybe rushed is the right word. We don't have a solid foundation to create tension, and rush through moments that could (missing pages 34-37 doesn't generate mystery or tension, because we have no idea why this matters, and we move straight onto finding those pages). I like the worldbuilding we do, being in an office of an eldritch corporation or something like that. Nicely done. Nice worldbuilding with the working for an eldritch corporation, but characters come off as flat, and uninspired. The plot doesn't have enough time to let tension bloom, nor do we care what happens to the protagonist, so when the gruesome ending hits it doesn't hit as hard as it should. The Technicality I love the start, just focusing on this weird human cadavers and very quickly using a single title, that lets us know the cadvaers purpose, but not the whole story behind them. Wonderfully done and makes me ask a lot of good questions. I also appreciate that we continue this use of titles/referencing other things, but not halting the story to explain what these titles mean and using the characters reactions to give us the necessary information. Dialogue is well done., though I found the formatting around it to be odd. Might be a forum thing causing issues. But the back and forth really works. What really stands out though, is the plot. I like the twist, I like that we have a conflict we must resolve, and I like the the characters have open motives, and hidden motives. Well done! The Book Of the Dead I found this story to be well put together, and our character has sympathetic motivations. I found that the story got a bunch of passive travelling heaped onto it, and also reminded us the protagonist is constantly frustrated or angry, and it got rather tiresome. The worldbuilding , or maybe world travelling, is there. We explore the world, we find out more about the world, and the world continues to exist in the story. And if you notice I am repeating world, it's because that's my biggest issue with the story. The world building and travel eat up all the words, leaving little for me to enjoy. I started to skim around the ship portion of the story. Small Miracle Woo lets punch nazis and do some action scenes! YEEEAH. This is cool, preppy and vapid. Our Trans thing is a curse, which we barely explore. Everyone is horny, but we are PG-13 story, and after punching nazis and deflecting horny people, we succeed. The story flows with energy, the pace doesn't stop, but we don't really say anything, do anything memorable. Personally bit bummed out that the T is a curse, and it doesn't really matter in the story. You could remove it , do a few word changes, and the story would still flow the way it does now. I wanted a bit more meat to this story, as it is its the protagonist doing RAD ACTION and explaining their situation, but not really exploring their situation. But, I like the story, and punching nazis. The Flying Steel of Doctor Wang Alright this was pretty loving awesome. Clever sentences, knowing when to emphasize the dramatic flair. Really this reads like Doctor McNinja and the plot is just as ridiculous. It was a well crafted story that I can't find fault in the prose. The sentences are simple, but deliberately so with that translated filled to the brim with wooden dialogue famous in translated Wuxia films from the 80's. This would fit in right along side Kill pussycat Kill, and ya know, other films that I might not want to share with my friends. And that's my only, minor, criticism. I couldn't tell if this was a satire, or not, of those translated wuxia films from the 80s and 90s. I think being immediately introduced to the parody with the dialogue, which nailed that mis-translated wooden feel, made me feel a bit uncomfortable. Or maybe I'm a massive stick in the mud. Because of that, I didn't get into the energy that is definitely in this piece that expertly nails a certain part of Wuxia, but that part is in the blaxploitation era. It's not bad, I just couldn't pick it up. This is very much personal taste, and I am happy it HM'D as it nailed the prompt. Also god drat some of the lines are killer. The Deep Down Under God drat this piece has a voice and I love it. I can almost hear the narrator as this piece unfolded. I think the main reason I didn't root for this piece is due to its structure and character. Cassidy moseys along in the piece, and while the character is sympathetic and we are invested in her success, the stakes are basically "Die or don't" and the way our character solves the situation is by being mainly passively. The monster fight is an interesting bit, but the part I was really going for, was lizard and cowboy dynamic. But at this point, we have to end the story, so we can't explore that dynamic.
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Jul 21, 2023 00:53
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hmm ok in
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Jul 21, 2023 05:55
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Signups closed.
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Jul 21, 2023 23:03
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The Importance of Women 1000 words I wasn't long home avoiding my parents once again when I'd found myself riding along the river to Pa's, figuring if I was going to catch poo poo, better warm up by catching it from him first. We'd sat apart in the house Pa built when he were little older than I was at the time, and hadn't appeared to care when I told him, he seemed far away. Maybe he'd been drinking I'd thought. He didn't usually. He'd suddenly asked me to drive him over to see Harry, calling me Danny. I corrected him saying, mate, I'm Les. He'd muttered that he knew that, grabbed his hat and said let's go. Couldn't work that out, him mixing me with my brother. I drove him in his old ute down to the graveyard and he'd asked what we were doing there. I reminded him his mate Harry died four years ago, and I cannot to this day properly describe the emotions going around as I realised this was somehow news to him. He'd got out saying righto, let's go see Harry, pretending he'd known all along, and I'd showed him Harry and he'd stood there awhile holding his hat. Then I took him home wondering why he hadn't walked over to see Nanna, since she was right by where I had stood waiting for him. ** It was a pretty awkward dinner that night. I'd expected hellfire for returning homesick unannounced, and mum delivered. She started out by calling me Leslie, an ominous sign. Dad put down his fork to enjoy the show. When would I realize raising cattle is seven days a week, not five with the first two hungover? Were I some kind of baby? Any more rodeo nonsense and she'd put me back in the hospital herself. Mum finally suggested I have a think about heading back to school. Her disappointment hurt. I couldn't imagine it'd get any worse til she told me what's up with Pa - Dementia. Long story short he wouldn't remember anything soon. Pa had both hips replaced twice already and one was wearing out again, and on top of that he could barely see from cataracts earned from a life in the sun. He would have to go into a nursing home if he got any worse, he'd wandered off looking for his long dead dog and the neighbours brought him home. Thought every bloke were Dan. I had to go outside awhile. *** Every day that week I'd ride down Pa's house, checking on the old bloke in this weird unbelief, never once in my insulated life had I had to dwell upon or deal with any mess before me, for that had been my mother's job. Pa was fine most times and I'd set him up and we'd talk awhile, and for the first time I really listened. He'd ramble on and over the days I heard tales of his own grandad, a currency lad who's father were a light fingered fellow from Cork. It soon made sense we came from horse thieves. He told me how he ran wild when dad was a baby. Nanna left him because all he cared for was horses and moving cattle on the old stock routes when he got back from the war. Said she had to give him enough rope to get the demons out, something along those lines. I learned of how he bought the place then the land around it and in the meantime drove nine hours every week to win back his wife and kids, which he did after months of promises, and they'd lived in a tent under the stringybarks and built their house. Nanna was the only woman that could straighten him, he said. He told about how my mother done the same with dad when he was rowdy and drinking and young. Nobody had told me that these sainted men had flaws. Never saw them do nothing but work. Pa claimed we boys were all the same, something I wouldn't have agreed with at the time. Important to find a woman that can handle our kind, he said. I told him he'd watched too much John Wayne. He'd just smiled, we will see. **** One afternoon I'd made him a cup of tea and got back from the kitchen to find him gone. I went outside and he was with my horse, and as I came up I heard him say Geegee's name. I must of giggled or something, thinking there he couldn't remember me half the time, but of course he'd remember a horse. He'd turned around hearing me and declared he was going for a ride. Pa was born in the saddle, and could glance at any horse and tell you everything about it. Geegee was a stock horse, a fairly calm thing as horses go, but a horse all the same, and big and strong. And Pa was really frail. I was momentarily unsure who was in charge here. Dad ran the place, but Pa owned it, I had a big hat and no cattle as yet. I'd half a mind to help him up to the saddle, which was his anyway, I mean, who had taught who to ride? I was fully aware mum would hit the roof with terminal velocity once she heard about it if I let him. I gave him a hand and he swung up easy. Pa had Geegee to trot along and circled around the yard some time, steering with rickety knees, one hand resting on the saddle horn. He galloped Geegee back to the verandah and got down at the worn step like he'd done a million times, a wild colonial boy. ***** Mum soon had me back in Sydney, and I met this young lady after awhile. Changing wasn't easy, but I finally brought her home and married her, because Pa knew what he was talking about. She keeps us colonial boys and girls in line.
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Jul 23, 2023 04:52
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Postcognition 974 words Grandma dug an old cardboard box out of her closet, the one I wasn’t allowed in. “Here you go, May,” she said. I laid out everything on the bed, and she stood by, watching me. She wouldn’t be able to see him, once it started, but that didn’t matter. She’d see my reactions, and that I supposed was enough. First would be his wedding ring. Grandma kept it in a little black ringbox, and as I opened it up, I recognized the upper half of the ring from the old photos of him. I extricated it from its seat, then dangled it from my finger. The metal felt ice-cold, “the chill of the grave,” or so I’d heard it described. I twisted it back and forth, worried the magic wouldn’t work. Then, out of nowhere, he was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, kicking against the frame. “Hi, kiddo.” I swallowed. “Hi, dad. It’s good to see you.” He twisted to look in my general direction, but he couldn’t see me directly. He smiled, and he looked so handsome, like a gentleman thief. “I loved your mother, more than I can describe. We met when I was out on my mission—I was out at a bar, even though the church said alcohol was a sin. My ID was forged, and so was hers. The first time I heard her laugh, every flirty joke I had for her fell right out the window, and all I could tell her was the truth: I was desperately in love with her, and I would never love another.” I laughed, and he sat up. “Yes, just like that. You sound just like her.” He paused, then ran a hand through his half-translucent hair. “The ring is for you, if you want it. You can give it to a man who will sweep you off your feet, like your mom did for me.” I blushed and looked away, suddenly hesitant. “Or… a woman, maybe?” Dad paused, then grinned. “Or a woman, sure.” Then he was gone, and the ring lost its chill and warmed to my body temperature. I took off the ring and set it gingerly back in its box. Grandma asked, “How was he?” “He was nice. He gave me his blessing.” I picked up the next object, a red and white scarf that was hopelessly fraying on one side. “I wish I could talk to him longer.” “I know. I’m sorry.” I draped the scarf over my shoulders, then looped one side around my neck. It felt like the hand of Death was trying to choke the life out of me. But it meant he was there, standing by the window, his face two years older, but somehow decades aged. “Hi, kiddo.” “Hi, dad.” He turned his head a degree, then went back to press his forehead against the glass. “I was wearing that scarf when your mother died. I thought… it was unfair. You’d just been born, and you were the greatest thing that ever happened to us. But she started bleeding after we took you home from the hospital, and then it wouldn’t stop…” I wished I could touch him, hug him, tell him everything would be okay, even though it wouldn’t. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anymore.” “I do! If I don’t…!” He shuddered, then held a hand to his forehead in grief. “I thought… why did God wait so long? Why did he wait until the happiest moment in my life to punish me for leaving the church? I thought He must be some sick son of a…” He paused. “How old are you?” “Twelve.” “Son of a gun.” He tried to laugh, but it came out weak and unconvincing. “But I realized, that’s just how it goes. And not even our family’s Gift can turn back the tide forever.” Then he was gone, and Death’s grip loosened on me. I didn’t want to take it off, but I couldn’t keep it on and wear the hat simultaneously. Magic rules, or something. I pulled it hard, harder than I’d anticipated, and Grandma said, “Dear, you’re crying.” I pawed at my eyes with the back of my wrist. “He told me about Mom, and about God punishing him.” She reached forward, about to say, “You don’t have to--” “No.” I put a hand on the hat and pulled it to my side of the bed. “I’m ready. I want to know.” She nodded and stepped back. “This one is the most difficult. Are you sure?” I swallowed. “Yes.” Then I put the hat on my head. It felt like the crown of a wicked ice king, frozen cold against my brow. He was suspended in the air, his hands in front of him as though holding a steering wheel, facing down towards the ground. “...you know I wanted to be there for you, kiddo. You know that, right?” “Of course you did.” He winced. “I did!” Then he said, more quietly, “I did…” I turned away; I didn’t want to look at him. “So why did you die, then?” Behind me, he sighed. “I… lost control.” “Of the car, or of yourself?” Then I tore the hat off of my head before he could respond. I fell to my knees onto the carpet, and Grandma hurried around the bed to hold me. “What happened?” “Do you think he did it intentionally? Drove off the road, off the bridge?” “Wh—” Grandma hesitated, stunned. “No! Didn’t he tell you? The road was too icy, the brakes locked. That’s what he told me!” “That’s not what he told me. He said he ‘lost control.’” “Exactly! Don’t you believe him?” “No.” “Why not?” I stared into the carpet. “Because the Gift isn’t the only curse I inherited from him.”
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Jul 23, 2023 05:09
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